Page 56 of Head Room (Caught Dead in Wyoming #15)

I heard the rain start as I slid into bed.

The snow from the pass was now over us, but thankfully in less solid form.

Also thankfully, it waited for us to have a lovely dinner and evening, including watching Shadow and Tamantha play in the slow-to-go twilight of the back yard.

My parents and Tom left. Tamantha was staying here tonight.

That, Mom said, was so we could get an early start the next morning on a full day of final wedding preparations.

And when she said early, she meant on Central Time, not Mountain Time.

I am not, however, defenseless.

After her third comment about my kitchen lacking a supply she wanted, I innocently suggested she stop by the Sherman Supermarket in the morning, before coming here, to make sure she had everything she wanted . . . and to be sure she introduced herself to Penny, the head checker.

Shadow came upstairs, circled, and settled onto his bed. One of his beds.

He’d developed a habit when Tom wasn’t in the house of staying on his second bed, in Tamantha’s room, until she fell asleep, then coming to mine until I fell asleep.

I know he split time during the night because I’d heard or seen him on the move.

In the morning, he reversed, being with each of us when we woke.

When Tom was in the house and when we were at the ranch, Shadow stuck with Tamantha.

“Going to have the light on for a while, buddy.”

Shadow moaned, but didn’t get up.

I opened my device and started reading.

* * * *

A sound woke Maggie.

Her first thought was that it was an alarm. Indians. Or a courier coming in with bad news of . . . Then she remembered they had returned. Ransom Fletcher had safely returned with it.

A second sound came clearer, of a heavy, muffled footstep. Then a scrape of wood against wood.

Ransom . . .

Maggie was out of the bed and through the door before the scrape became a crash.

“Ransom?”

In the moonlight, she made out her husband, one arm leaning heavily on the wooden table, while he bent over and reached for the fallen chair. He wore no boots — she saw their bulky outline as darker shadows near the door.

“Ah, Maggie. I didn’t mean to wake you. Took off my boots so I could creep in, silent as an Indian.”

He came upright with the chair, then listed rather precariously. She took an instinctive step toward him, then, almost as quickly, a step backwards.

He smelled somewhat like Dick Gregson had when he’d been drinking from that flat bottle.

Though Ransom’s lean body carried none of that underlying sour reek of sweat.

He smelled of smoke and soap and horse and leather and sage.

And Ransom showed no sign of the bitter anger she had come to associate with that smell, which had taught her to keep out of its path.

“Are you all right?” she asked warily.

“All right? I’m more than all right, Mrs. Fletcher.

I am alive. Alive! God! and doesn’t that sound grand?

” He grinned at her, and she found herself smiling back, for his attempt at an Irish lilt was laughable.

“Alive to ride under the blue sky, alive to drink good whiskey in small back rooms of ramshackle huts, alive to crack my shins against my own fine chair.”

He lifted the offending piece of furniture by the top rung of its back and spun it around to plant it square in the middle of the floor.

“Alive to awaken my own fine wife from her well-earned rest. Alive to sincerely beg her forgiveness.” He bent in a slightly unbalanced bow, cocking his head to the side to look at her. “Do I have your forgiveness, own fine wife?”

She smiled at him. “You do. Now I think you should get yourself to bed.”

He came upright in a flash. “Oh, no. Sleep? I don’t want to sleep. Not while I’m alive.”

His quick movement further threatened his balance and he stumbled. Trying to steady him, Maggie wrapped both hands around one arm and held on, at the same time guiding him toward the chair. But his will was stronger than it appeared, even in this state, and he still stood.

“Because I almost was sent to the sleep eternal. Like Louis and Ephraim and Thomas and, God — so many others, in so many places. Did you know that, Maggie? Did you know that, Maggie Fletcher?”

On the repetition of his question, he finally dropped into the chair. But before she could release a sigh of relief, he wrapped his arms around her and drew her down onto his lap.

“Did you know that, Maggie? I’m alive, but I almost wasn’t.

” She stiffened, but he didn’t seem to notice.

He dropped his head to rest where her shoulder and neck joined, while his long arms drew her tighter against the heated shield of his chest. “Did you know that, Maggie. I nearly died. If it hadn’t been for Bridger and Major Brand .

. . That’s the truth. Through all the rifles and cannons and sabers, I survived, and then an arrow nearly got me.

You’d have been a widow again, Maggie. The Widow Fletcher. Would you have minded?”

Her mind was swimming with too many thoughts and feelings. Terror at the thought of his being killed . . . A widow again . . . Things Gregson had done—

She shut those thoughts off. One Indian tried, but she’d delayed him and before he recovered to come after her again, the chief’s wife was there, staring him down without a word.

But Ransom was her lawful husband. He had the right to do these things. He said he wouldn’t . . . but he had the right.

She shifted slightly under the sensation of his lips on her neck.

“Ah, Maggie, that sweet woman smell. Trying to sleep, thinking about your hair on your pillow . . . The smell of you . . .”

His fingers were where his lips had been, the callused pads brushing at her skin, then dipping under the cloth. One smooth jerk, and the bow that topped the laced-up front of her night shift came free. His other hand gently tugged the material, brushing her skin, until it slipped off her shoulder.

Her breath left her. He had the right. He had the right.

But this was different.

He touched her more fully, a sound coming from him that made her part her lips.

He stood, sweeping her up. “Ah, Maggie.”

Before she could get her head to stop swimming from the swiftness and the oddness of how she felt, he laid her on the bed and followed her down.

She squeezed her eyes closed. It would be over soon. He had the right . . .

But he didn’t do what she expected.

She opened her eyes. He was looking at her.

She moved on instinct. But he stilled her fingers trying to grasp the night shift’s material to draw over herself, stilled her with one strong hand, and his soft voice.

“Ah, Maggie, you are beautiful. So beautiful . . . I dreamed . . .”

He was her husband, and he wanted this.

He released her hands, but she made no move to cover herself.

Now, he would do it. She would hold still, and it would be over.

But his hands took hers again, using his thumbs to open fists she hadn’t realized she’d made. He pressed her hands against him. She felt the heat and solid smoothness of his chest.

“I’m alive, Maggie, alive . . .”

She heard his murmur, but the words had no meaning in her mind. Why was he doing all this? The touching. The kissing. The talking.

She knew he’d removed one of his hands from atop hers, she knew she could have pulled away. She didn’t.

“Ah, Maggie . . .”