21

Shepard stared unseeing at the mauve coverlet, slowly shaking his head at the more obvious possibilities. "Maybe he sought out Doc Graham... or someone spotted him around town. Do you think his reputation has reached these parts?"

Jeremiah shrugged, "Your guess is as good as mine... though if they know who he is and the sheriff hasn't arrested him, it's bound to make our job a bit more difficult."

Shepard nodded, thinking such a scenario could turn finding Dynamite into a nightmare. Because many people in towns like this were more apt to believe outlaws were modern-day Robin Hoods than criminals until it was too late.

A thoughtful look settled on Jeremiah's face, but when he remained silent and the clock chimed the hour, Shepard grabbed the top bar of the footboard and asked, "You've gone awful quiet...what are you thinking?"

"It's late, and I'm an invalid in desperate need of rest," Jeremiah said with a pointed look before adjusting his position in bed. "You think sending a telegram to Bertie would help convince Douglas of my weakened state?"

"Possibly," Shepard nodded. He scratched his left shoulder and narrowed his eyes as he gave the matter some thought before saying, "But I'd hate to worry your wife just to make Delores give us a little breathing room."

Jeremiah yawned, "You let me worry about that. For now, focus on searching the town for any sign of Dynamite, and I'll see what I can find out from my sickbed... might just manage to rid this town of more than a few rotten apples before we leave."

"All right." Shepard straightened and rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly exhausted beyond belief. "You mind if I bunk in here tonight?"

"Well, I'll be—I ain't never met a bounty hunter afraid of the dark before," Jeremiah drawled, "till now, that is."

Shepard chuckled, "I'm not scared. Harris said the other rooms were taken." He rubbed his eyes and fell silent, thinking of his earlier conversation with Thomas. "And I'd rather not bring further speculation down on Hazel by someone catching sight of me slinking into her room at night and leaving in the morning."

"Then don't slink," Jeremiah teased. "What does it matter anyway? As far as the town's concerned, she's a widow."

"That may be," Shepard mumbled, "but you and I know better."

Jeremiah chuckled and lifted his shoulders in a shrug. He fell quiet, then asked with a mischievous smile curling his lips, "You want me to light a lamp for you, son?"

"Thank you kindly for the offer, but I'll be fine. I'm gonna go gather my things."

"You know, you could marry her," Jeremiah yawned, turning onto his side and closing his eyes as he continued sleepily, "that'd stop tongues from wagging, set that Thomas feller straight on the matter too. Being in a bed with her... now that would be a far sight more comfortable and enjoyable than bunking on the floor in here with me."

Shepard scoffed and tried to ignore his heart slamming against his ribs and the swarm of butterflies in his gut at Jeremiah's words. "I'll be right back."

A soft chuckle escaped Jeremiah as Shepard turned the knob and stepped into the hall. He stopped for a minute and took a fortifying breath before rapping his knuckles against Hazel's door, a part of him hoping she would be sound asleep.

But within the next breath, the door swung open, and Hazel stood before him, her brown-sugar eyes drinking him in with a warm and welcoming heat. A near overwhelming need to hold her set his arms to aching.

He'd only been away from Hazel for less than an hour or so, and yet it felt as though it'd been months or years.

"Everything all right with Jeremiah?" she murmured, moving aside to allow him through.

Shepard swallowed and nodded, shoving his hands deep in his pockets to keep from reaching for her as he passed through the doorway. He needed to get his belongings and leave before he gave into temptation. It was the only way to stay focused on the task at hand. Once Dynamite was dealt with, then he could turn his attention to winning Hazel's heart. "Why d'you ask?"

Hazel closed the door, "I could hear the two of you talking... it sounded serious." She turned and watched him gather his dried clothes still spread in front of the fireplace and stuff them into his saddlebag. "You going somewhere?" she asked, cringing when her voice trembled.

Shepard froze, grateful his back was to Hazel so she couldn't see the difficulty he had spitting out, "I'll be bunking with Jeremiah tonight."

Withdrawing the money roll and Hazel's broken locket from the second pocket of his bag, he set them on the bedside table and then glanced around the room, making sure he had everything before straightening to his full height. Now all he had to do was leave.

Silence, and then she said, "Oh."

Was that relief in her voice? Shepard gave himself a mental shake, convinced he was hearing things. He was tired, it had been an extraordinarily long and stressful day, so it was only natural his mind and ears would play tricks on him.

Clenching his jaw, he slung the saddlebag over his left shoulder and focused on what used to be the uncomplicated act of walking. But the distance between him and the door widened like an impassable chasm, despite only being ten measly feet. Hazel stood in the same spot she'd been since he'd entered, watching his slow progress.

Escape was a mere moment away from being his; all Shepard had to do was grab the doorknob and walk out. An ordinary action he'd performed countless times over the past week without much thought.

But then, as though his eyes had a will of their own and needed one last look at her, Shepard met Hazel's gaze. His feet refused to take another step, and for the life of him, he couldn't command his arm to lift or his hand to grasp the brass knob.

They stared at one another, neither moving a muscle for the span of several heartbeats, and then Hazel swallowed and gathered her inky black hair over her right shoulder as she turned and gave him her back. "Will you help me before you go?"

Shepard forced a swallow as he stared at the neat row of pea-sized buttons, fifteen to be exact. His throat was suddenly too tight, his lips had gone numb, and he'd lost the ability to speak. Buttoning Hazel's dress the day of their kiss had been a form of sweet torture previously unknown. And now she was gifting him another opportunity to experience it, and he didn't know if he'd survive without making a fool of himself.

Hazel cleared her throat and clenched her eyes shut, wondering if she'd gone and lost her ever-loving mind. It was evident by Shepard's abrupt, almost standoffish manner the entire time he'd been in the room that he wanted to avoid any contact with her. As though he feared she was infested with fleas or had a contagious disease, which, as far as she knew, neither was the case.

There was a solid chance he'd walk out the door without a word, and she'd have to spend another increasingly uncomfortable night in her dress. She wanted to weep at the thought and was tempted to rip it off should he refuse to help.

But when he set the saddlebags on the floor and took the two steps separating them, her heart hammered in her chest. He stood so close, his boots brushed the back hem of her skirts.

Hazel licked her lips and pressed a hand to her fluttering stomach in a vain attempt to steady her nerves. "I'll have to remember not to...."

He touched her, and she forgot what she was going to say.

Hazel's eyes slid closed, a breath caught in her throat, and shivers of delight raced across her body when the backs of his warm fingers brushed against the bare skin between her shoulder blades as he slipped three buttons free.

Holding the bodice to her chest as the material loosened, Hazel bit back a disappointed sigh when his fingers released the last button at the small of her back.

"All done," Shepard hoarsely murmured, his hands settling low at her waist.

Hazel swallowed and forced a smile as she glanced over her shoulder without meeting his gaze. "Thank you."

Shepard nodded and tried to step away. But his feet misinterpreted the command—it was the only explanation that came to mind—and instead moved closer as his traitorous hands slipped around her waist. A crippling mistake. Muttering a curse, he spun her around, hauled her into his arms, and claimed her mouth with a driven, heated kiss.

A soft mewl of desire escaped her as she wrapped her arms around his neck and returned the exchange with equal passion. Their surroundings melted away until it was only the two of them in the whole world. Nothing else mattered. He clutched her to him as though he feared she might be ripped from his arms at any moment.

When the clock chimed the midnight hour, Shepard forced himself to end the kiss. Cradling her face in both his hands, he stared into her passion-addled eyes and smiled. Words of love perched on the tip of his tongue, ready to leap free of his mouth, but he bit them back for fear of scaring her and said instead, "I oughta skedaddle, Jonesy."

He pressed a tender, almost reverent kiss to her lips, then stepped away, "Be sure to lock the door behind me."

"I will," she whispered with a smile, "sleep well, Shepard."

"I'm sure I will now, sugar," he winked. Then with one last quick, hard kiss, he scooped up his saddlebags and left.

Hazel drifted after him in a lovesick daze, grinning like a fool when he winked at her before pulling the door shut. Then, covering her tingling lips with her fingers, she pressed her forehead against the smooth, painted wooden panel and twisted the lock.

A soft giggle escaped her as she disrobed and draped her gown over the chair. She couldn't remember a time when she'd felt so giddy, regardless of everything that had transpired over the past several days. No doubt it was purely her body rejoicing at being free of her gown and had little to do with their kiss.

Humming along with the piano music, she removed her petticoat and laid it atop her dress as she glanced at the window.

The familiar ache settled in her chest while staring at her shop and the new boards of her bedroom, complete save for the large window due to arrive next week. She may have still refused to step within its walls, but she hadn't managed to avoid staring at the damage from the hotel window even during her vigil of tending to Jeremiah. It drew her gaze, taunting her like a phantom in the dark and filling her mind with questions and doubts.

The glint of metal on the bedside table caught Hazel's eye, and she sat on the bed as she picked up the damaged money roll and her locket. She rubbed her thumb over the misshapen bullet and couldn't help but think of what Shepard said earlier.

Was her life in Sheridan worth keeping and rebuilding, or should she leave and start fresh somewhere new? The idea was as appealing as it was terrifying. She could return to California, perhaps, where, at the very least, she'd have the memory of her mother to keep her company.

Or, if she was daring, she could ask Shepard to go with her.

Her heart raced at the thought.

Setting the money back on the little table, she blew out the lamp, crawled between the sheets in her camisole and bloomers, and stared at the ceiling while clutching her locket to her chest.

As much as she liked to think of herself as a brave person capable of handling most situations thrown her way, Hazel willingly admitted that when it came to matters of the heart, she was nothing but a coward. Once Shepard and Jeremiah dealt with Dynamite, it would be better if they went their separate ways—even if it meant she spent the rest of her life a lonely spinster masquerading as a widow.

Her chin wobbled, and tears stung her eyes, knowing the only way forward was to keep her distance from him, despite how it went against every instinct she possessed. No matter how desperately she pined for them, there could be no more flirting, teasing, or stolen kisses.

Clenching the covers tightly in her fists, she squeezed her eyes shut and grit her teeth. How she would manage such a feat escaped her at present, considering she'd quite literally thrown herself at Shepard the moment she realized who he was. In all honesty, being impersonal with him might prove impossible.

But it was the only way to survive his re-entrance in her life, so she'd have to find a way even if it meant pretending he was Thomas.

A tearful groan escaped her, and with that depressing thought, she drifted off into a fitful sleep and dreamed of a life with Shepard that would never come true.

The following morning, Hazel awoke to a pounding headache and a distinct chill in the air, which irritated her to no end for reasons she refused to dwell on. Sleep had been difficult to come by, thanks in large part to the ache settled behind her left eye, stabbing her brain with every beat of her heart.

She opened bleary eyes with a scowl creasing her brow and muttered a curse at what met her tired gaze outside the window. Snow fell with wild glee past the frosty panes of glass.

A quiet whine in petulant protest escaped her while she huddled beneath her covers. Muttering a bevy of colorful and inventive curses, Hazel curled her legs to her chest and shivered despite the small cocoon of warmth encasing her.

The mauve coverlet proved poorly inadequate on such a frigid morning, making Hazel pine for her down comforter destroyed in the fire. After suffering two miserable, freezing weeks in the dead of winter upon arriving in Sheridan, it had been one of her first purchases.

Each exhale left her lips in a puff of crystalized air and her skin prickled with gooseflesh. She rubbed her temple and forehead, willing the ache to dissipate.

A knock sounded at her door several minutes later, loud as the crack of a gun at close range and reverberated within her skull. Hazel groaned and clenched her eyes shut, cringing when a louder, more insistent knock followed. "Jonesy? You awake?"

Bracing her weight on her right elbow, she grumbled another curse and stood, pulling the coverlet around her as she shuffled to the door.

"I am now," she complained, twisting the knob and opening the door a bare crack.

"Morning," Shepard said with a smile tugging at his lips that quickly gave way to a frown creasing his brow. "You feeling all right? You don't look too good."

Hazel brushed wisps of hair out of her face and scowled, "That's precisely what a woman wants to hear first thing in the morning." She studied him, irritated he looked more handsome than the day before. Her heartbeat kicked up a notch at his nearness.

His dark brown sheepskin coat hung open, exposing the blood-stained shirt beneath, and lent an air of danger to his rugged appearance. Muddy crystals of snow clung to the tops of his boots, melting down the sides to pool on the floor.

He arched a brow at her tone but decided to let the matter rest and held out the yellow picnic dress and a coat he'd found hanging by the back door of The Ruffled Feather.

"You're up awful early to be traipsing around in the snow," she murmured, allowing her eyes to meet his for a brief moment before focusing on a cobweb hanging from the wrought-iron chandelier in the landing beyond his shoulder.

"I brought these over for you," he said lamely, thrusting the clothes forward when she didn't immediately reach to take them.

Hazel wanted to weep, and not because of the horrible pain in her head.

An ache settled in her chest, tightening as she stared at her clothes and began to understand how difficult and agonizing the task of maintaining her distance would be.

'Pretend he's Thomas,' she silently chanted, focusing her gaze on the gingham pattern of her dress hanging in his hands. She hesitated, then adjusted her hold on the coverlet and latched onto her dress and coat, tucking them against her chest like a shield.

Shepard watched her, his brow lowering in a concerned and puzzled frown as he settled his hands on his hips. He opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it and snapped it closed. Asking her what was wrong had become an increasingly frequent occurrence for him. And, by her shuttered expression, he doubted she'd give him a wholly honest answer anyway.

"How's Jeremiah this morning?"

Shepard hesitated, choosing his words carefully, "He had a bit of a rough night." He pursed his mouth, silently admitting the statement was as close to the truth as he could have come.

Hazel licked her lips, her eyes darting from the chipped paint of the door casing to the wooly seam of sheepskin molded around Shepard's right shoulder.

He raked his hands through his hair and stepped away from the door. "Well... I, uh, better get a move on."

Hazel's gaze snapped to meet his, her heart slammed against her ribs, her stomach dropped to her toes, and a sharp ringing filled her ears. She'd known this moment would come eventually, but she didn't think it would be nearly so soon. "You're leaving?"

"I need to track down Dynamite before he has a chance to try something again. So you might not see much of me over the next few days."

Relief poured through her with dizzying speed, leaving her feeling weak and frazzled. Of course. Dynamite. How could she have forgotten Shepard's purpose in being here in the first place?

Hazel gave herself a mental shake and cleared her throat. "But it's snowing."