No Place for a Lady Read online

  The photographer forgotten, Madolyn changed course and headed for Tyler. “You are just the man I want to see, sir.”

  “Now, Maddie, I can explain—”

  “I don’t recall giving you permission to address me as if I were your…your…” Madolyn twisted her neck to glare back at the soiled doves who watched as if with single vision from the porch. Then she saw the sign. It hung from the eaves—a white sign, painted with red and gold letters: HOUSE OF NEGOTIABLE LOVE. Her heart pounded against her stays. Her knees turned to jelly. No wonder he had taken her to the back door. Miss Abigail would…Perish the thought!

  When she turned back to him, Tyler had shoved his hat back on his head and removed the twig from his lips. His eyes still danced. “As if you were my what, Maddie?”

  “You insolent, despicable…” Furiously, she clamped her jaws together. “You are exactly like every other man I have ever known. You get your thrills at the expense of innocent women. Well, I, for one, will not stand for such treatment, sir, not from you, not from any man.” She gathered her skirts. “How dare you bring me to a…to a…” She shot a glance toward the photographer who stroked his mustache and watched her without flinching. Indeed, instead of retiring beneath her scrutiny, he stepped forward.

  “Price Donnell, Miss Sinclair. Editor of the Buckhorn News.”

  The newspaper! Lord in heaven! No doubt, not only the photograph of her standing on the porch of the House of Negotiable Love surrounded by the town’s soiled doves would appear in the Buckhorn News, but an account of the tongue-lashing she had given Tyler Grant, as well.

  What would Morley think? Suddenly the feeling of betrayal struck home. If Morley had come to fetch her, none of this would have happened. But he hadn’t. Now she realized he probably had not sent Tyler Grant. Whatever reason Tyler had for lying—

  Before she lost all will to do so, Madolyn turned on Tyler. If Mr. Donnell wanted a story, she would oblige him. She had stood up for other women in her day, why not for herself?

  “You are even more wicked than I guessed, Mr. Grant. It takes a devious mind to move a lady into such a place, then call the local newspaperman to publish her presence there.”

  “Now, Maddie, I didn’t know you were—”

  “Never address me by that name again, sir.”

  Turning swiftly, she stomped out of the yard, stormed into the street, and marched defiantly away from the House of Negotiable Love, unmindful of the direction she took, heedless of her destination. All she knew was that she had to get away, as far away as possible, as quickly as possible.

  Embarrassment and fury whirred inside her, blinding and deafening her to anything else, until at length the train whistle pierced her wall of anguish. In the distance she spied the railroad tracks. The train.

  Morley sent word for her to return to Boston. Well, that’s exactly what she would do. She might starve after she got there, but at the moment starvation was definitely the lesser evil.

  She picked up speed. When her brain cleared a bit more, she realized that she had only a pittance in her reticule. Certainly not enough money to get her home. Probably not enough to purchase passage back to Abilene.

  Perhaps she could persuade the conductor to wait until she sent someone to that wretched house for her belongings. That’s what she would do. Surely she could persuade—

  “Maddie!”

  Tyler’s voice struck her like an arrow fired by a savage. Even though her ankles wobbled painfully in her loosely laced shoes, she charged ahead.

  The train whistle blasted again. She fought to clear her mind, to think. The train had headed west of town to load cattle; the stationmaster said it would leave for points east at five o’clock. Or thereabouts. She had no idea what time it was. It seemed like an eternity since she arrived in this godforsaken land. She dared not stop to check her timepiece.

  Then she heard Tyler’s boots, stomping up behind her. Running boots. Coming fast. Gaining.

  She ran as fast as she could with loosened laces and swollen ankles. Her gait was uneven, hobbling, but she reached the railroad tracks. Tyler was close behind, shouting at her.

  “Damnit, Maddie, stop.”

  She leaped to get across the tracks. For some reason, she felt certain her safety depended on her reaching the other side. Once there, she could hail the train. Once there—

  Her shoe slipped on the steel rail. Her heel lodged between the fishplate and tie bar. She yanked. Her ankle twisted. She winced.

  “Maddie!”

  Wriggling her foot, she tried to slip it out of her shoe, but only the top was loose; the bottom laces held her foot firmly in place. Tyler caught her by the shoulders.

  “I can explain, Maddie.”

  “Get your hands off me.” Struggling, she refused to look at him. His grip tightened. A sense of futility swept over her; her eyes glazed with moisture.

  Tears? From her? Madolyn Sinclair? Absolutely not. Fiercely she struggled to free herself. She bent forward; he bent over her. His bulk encompassed her. In her despair, she forgot her foot and concentrated on freeing herself from this wretched man.

  The train whistle blared. Stricken, she glanced up. The sound had come from around the bend. The engine wasn’t in sight—yet.

  “We’ve gotta get off the tracks, Maddie.” Tyler grabbed her around the waist and tried to pull her onto the grading. But her heel wouldn’t budge.

  “Damnit, Maddie, come on.”

  “Get away from me. Let me—”

  “Come on—”

  “Get out of my way.” Wishing for her parasol, she tried to fend him off by jabbing her elbows into his solid midsection. “Turn me loose. My shoe’s caught. I can’t get my foot—”

  Tyler held her so close, she felt him gasp. In an instant, he released her. She watched him glance toward the bend in the tracks, even as he knelt to free her foot. “How the hell did you get caught like this?” He fumbled with the laces.

  “It’s your fault,” she accused, wriggling her foot.

  “Be still, will you?” The train whistle blasted again.

  She looked up the tracks, then regretted it, for at that moment the front guard, the cow-catcher, folks called it, rounded the corner. Like a monster out of the Middle Ages, the engine hurtled toward them belching smoke. The whistle blared in a succession of quick, sharp blasts. The conductor leaned out the side. He shouted at them. His words were obscured, but his meaning was clear. Wheels screeched against rails in an obvious attempt to stop the advancing train. She looked down at her foot.

  “Hurry, please.” Her words were no more than a whisper. Tyler couldn’t have heard her, she knew that, but his warm hand tightened around her ankle.

  He glanced up. “Hold on, Maddie. I’ll get you out of here.” His brown eyes spoke of confidence, and somewhere deep inside she trusted him.

  While she watched, almost as stunned by her reaction to this man as by the difficulty she found herself in, he withdrew a long-bladed knife, dipped the point into the center of her shoelaces, and sliced them apart from toe to top. Of an instant, he had sheathed the knife, scooped her in his sinewy arms, and rolled the two of them off the tracks and down the grading. The train screeched to a halt within inches of where she had stood. She felt the life drain out of her. Relief began to seep into the void. Relief and disbelief.

  She couldn’t recall the last time she had fallen to the ground, lain there in a heap of tangled arms and legs. Certainly not since she reached adulthood. Yet, in less than an hour, she had found herself in just such a position, not once, but twice. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  Neither of which she was in the habit of doing. But she had never been almost run over by a train before, either. Her fear was real, palpable.

  Tyler’s expansive shoulders and strong arms sheltered her, and for the moment, she was content to lie there, shoulder to the ground, face buried in his solid chest, effectively shutting out thoughts of anyone who might be gawking at her unseemly behavior. Indeed, w
hen she felt his arms loosen, she glanced up, tensed against the trembling that overtook her.

  “It’s all right, Maddie. You’re safe now.”

  His soft drawl stroked some unknown chord deep within her. His tone carried an undercurrent of teasing. She realized suddenly that everything he said was voiced in such a tone. When she tried to bury her face in his chest again, he nudged it up with his chin to her forehead.

  She saw concern in his brown eyes, a touch of worry, and questions. His embrace formed a sheltering barrier between her and reality. His burly arms protected her; his large hands gathered her to him, making her feel small, delicate, and secure, none of which she had ever felt in such abundance.

  “You all right?”

  She nodded, but the tenderness in both his tone and his expression were too much. Tears rushed to her eyes.

  “You’re safe, Maddie.” Taking her by complete surprise, his face dipped, his lips brushed hers. It was the briefest of contact. But, oh, my! What earth-shattering sensations! A kiss! It was a kiss, wasn’t it? She had never been kissed before. Not in all her thirty years.

  A shiver sped down her spine. She saw in his eyes that he felt it. He winked. Then before she could dredge up one single, coherent thought, his lips descended again.

  Suddenly she came to her senses. She remembered where she was, who she was. Madolyn Sinclair. Secretary of the Boston Woman Suffrage Society. Miss Abigail would…

  Moving swiftly, she dodged his lips, extricated herself from his arms, and jumped to her feet. Daring to look neither left nor right, she attempted to flee. But his hand closed around her arm. In one deft motion he halted her escape and brought her around to face him.

  His warm gaze bore into hers, intense now, serious. “I didn’t send Donnell to take your photograph, Maddie.”

  “I’ll just bet.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Well, you certainly took me to that…that house.”

  “Hell, it’s the only place in town, thanks to your brother. I mean, the only place to board. Goldie uses the top floor for boarders.”

  “And for what else?”

  Storm clouds gathered in his brown eyes, turning them as cold as a harsh winter day. His Stetson had fallen off in the melee, and a shock of dark hair fell over one brow. At length, he grinned wickedly. “You really want to know?”

  Incensed, she yanked to free herself, but he held her by two hands now. “You are despicable, sir.”

  “Didn’t I warn you to use the back staircase?”

  “Men! I should have known not to trust you.” Even before she finished speaking, his broad brow had begun to furrow. “You’re despicable,” she charged. “A beast, a—”

  “In that case…” He jerked her to him. This time he didn’t stop with a soft brush of his lips; this time his mouth ground against hers, warm and wet and harsh.

  She struggled to free herself, but he held her in a fierce grip. When she tried to kick him, he moved his legs out of the way. Just when she thought he intended to set her free, applause erupted from both sides of the tracks. His kiss took on urgency.

  Embarrassment flushed Madolyn with the heat of a wildfire. Yet, suddenly she felt tired and weak and curiously safe here in the shelter of Tyler’s encompassing embrace.

  Tyler’s embrace? She wasn’t sure when he had taken her in his arms. But here she was, leaning against his sturdy chest, feeling his heart race, his arms on her back. The spot where each of his fingers made contact left a little heated circle on her skin, even through her clothing.

  When at length he lifted his lips, his gaze delved into hers with mute questions. Without speaking he rested his forehead against hers, while they stood, breathing heavily, both of them.

  Finally he set her aside. “Think you can hobble back to the house, or should I carry you?”

  Carry her? Were she the swooning type, Madolyn felt sure she would have succumbed to vapors at such a suggestion, uttered, she doubted not for the benefit of the gawking townsfolk.

  Miss Abigail would be mortified!

  “If you think I’m going back to that—”

  Her words came to an abrupt halt when Tyler scooped her in his brawny arms and strode off down the street. Disconcerted, she debated whether to set up a ruckus by kicking and exposing her pantaloons and petticoats to the barbaric populace of this town or to wait until he set her down to vent her wrath.

  A spectator to her disgrace dashed out of the crowd and slapped Tyler’s Stetson on his head.

  “Thanks, Buster.”

  He didn’t break stride. “I’ll expect you to thank me for this later, Maddie,” he told her in that half-jesting drawl of his. “Cowboys don’t take to walkin’ any better’n we take to drivin’ a wagon.”

  Three

  By morning Tyler Grant filled her life. Throughout the sleepless night, his memory permeated her mind with the same nauseating effect of the bad perfume that suffused this house. In the harsh light of day she blamed him for all the wrongs that had been visited upon her in the past twenty-four hours.

  He was, after all, Morley’s best friend. And brother or not, Morley had let her down.

  Tired as she was, she hadn’t slept a wink. Daylight found her exhausted from tossing and turning, from trying to exorcise Tyler Grant from her mind, and from worrying about her future. For one solid month she had yearned for a hot bath and a soft bed with clean-smelling sheets and enough legroom to stretch out her knees. And what good had either done her?

  Relieved to learn that Morley hadn’t intended for her to return to Boston sight unseen, she had enjoyed the bath. But everything after that had gone downhill at the pace of a runaway team. By morning she had reached an inescapable conclusion: She had made a grave error in judgment by coming to this barbaric land. Her actions had been rooted in emotion, and emotion, as Miss Abigail steadfastly maintained, had led to the downfall of many a well-bred lady.

  Penniless in Boston was looking better by the minute. But she wasn’t in Boston—she was in Buckhorn, Texas, which she suspected must surely be the last stop before the gates of hell.

  A loud knock at her parlor door was followed by Lucky’s call. “’Mornin’, Miss Maddie. I’ve brung your breakfast.”

  Tears, which Madolyn had fought all night, threatened again. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes and let the ensuing black circles soothe her. What to do? What to do?

  “I’ll bring it back later, if you ain’t ready.”

  “No.” Madolyn jumped from the bed. “Come in, Lucky.” She shrugged into a batiste wrapper and struggled to find her common sense. Common sense, which she desperately needed to see her through this day and at least one more. After that, surely she would have gained Morley’s signature on the papers she brought for him to sign. As soon as she secured that signature, she would board the next train for Boston.

  In the meantime, the immediate present, she must decide how to comport herself around a houseful of soiled doves and an outrageous man who obviously planned to turn her into one.

  She opened the door to Lucky’s cheery smile. “Mornin’, honey. Hope you slept well.”

  Madolyn cast a hasty glance across the hall to Tyler’s closed door. “Well enough, thank you.” How could she admit the heinous truth, that squeals of laughter and cries of delight from the second floor had jarred her awake every time she drifted off?

  More disgraceful yet, that each and every time she awakened, her first thought had been to wonder whether Tyler was a participant in the debauchery. How could she face the man this morning?

  “Fried you a hen egg to go along with the steak an’ gravy an’ biscuits,” Lucky was saying. “Miss Goldie insisted. Said no tellin’ what you’re liable to find out at your brother’s.”

  She watched Lucky pour tea from a porcelain teapot into a matching cup. “It doesn’t matter what I find. I am well beyond hoping for anything more than his signature.”

  “Some of Miss Goldie’s store tea. She uses it for a quick pickup.
”

  “Tea?”

  “Reckon store tea seems too civilized for a wide spot in the road like this. Sassafras or even—”

  “Oh, no,” Madolyn broke in, eager to avert a repeat of the scene the evening before when she arrived back at the House of Negotiable Love.

  After her attempted escape and the disastrous turn of events at the railroad tracks, she had had little stomach for facing the soiled doves again. But she endured Tyler’s march back to the House, biding her time until they were out of earshot of the crowd at the depot before she would revile him for intruding in her life. Her efforts, however, ended like everything else she had attempted since her arrival, dismally.

  “I’ll thank you to put me down,” she had spat at him the moment they were alone.

  Tyler hadn’t broken stride, but carried her as effortlessly as if she were a feather—she, Madolyn Sinclair, who had never been anything but gawky.

  “Now, Maddie,” he had drawled, “you should be thankin’ me for savin’ your life, not beratin’—”

  Somewhere along the way, she had lost her bonnet and most of her hairpins. Her hair hung in thick waves, embarrassing her further. No one had ever seen her hair down, not since she gained adulthood. “I could have saved my own life.”

  “Sure. With your heel wedged in the fishplate and your laces tied in knots.”

  “My laces were not tied in knots, sir.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “Differ all you like.”

  “Your laces were tied in knots and the train was barrelin’ down and—”

  “I could have saved myself if you hadn’t—”

  Without slowing his determined pace, Tyler had grinned—actually grinned. “I know what’s got you riled, Maddie. It’s that kiss.”

  Madolyn’s heart raced at his suggestion—or reminder. “Oh, is that what it was?” Her boldness startled her. Almost as much as it did him.

  He stopped in his tracks. His expression turned serious and she realized with a start that his patience was thinning. “You know damned well, it was.”