Intimate Strangers (Eclipse Heat Book 2) (10 page)

Studying her appearance in the mirror—too-tight bodice above, over-ample material in the hips and stomach—she changed back to her old dress.

Adding a dark, tailored jacket she found at the back of the closet, she fastened the middle button, nipping in the waist so she looked less like a rumpled basket of clothes. This allowed her to carry another gun in her pocket. It seemed best to have her weapons handy since she was preparing to pour kerosene down a rathole, light a match and watch what ran out.

She returned to the kitchen and told Ambrose, “Take me as I am or stay put.”

He shrugged and put down his coffee. “Ready, kids?” Brody and Alex had changed clothes, intent on accompanying them to Eclipse.

Ambrose, Hamilton and three ranch hands rode next to the wagon when the Quince family passed under the Double-Q sign.  Lucy did feel protected, surrounded by the silent Quince riders. She settled the Winchester beside her and held the reins with confidence.

Ambrose enjoyed watching the banker squirm. Stephen Pauley was obviously uncomfortable with the way the visit was going. Lucy had dispensed with social niceties and asked for an accounting of her money. The atmosphere in the room was rife with discord as past antagonisms roiled between Ambrose and the bank president.

Pauley’s problem at the moment was how to address her—give her a status he didn’t want to accord, or call her ma’am, a hard word to utter with her expectant gaze on him. Ambrose enjoyed the banker’s dilemma.

Pauley parsed his words carefully. “Before this bank could release any customer information, we would have to see proof of identity.”

Ambrose could see Pauley weaken when she replied in Lucy’s husky tones, “What an odd request, Mr. Pauley.”

But then she added in a flat, no-nonsense manner Lucille McKenna had never used, “My husband stands here beside me. What further proof do you need?”

Ambrose put his hand on the back of the chair and remained quiet. Lucy had things under control. She said grimly, “I understand that while I was gone, you withheld my funds from my family—deprived my children of their use.”

Pauley nodded and defended his position, looking shocked at the woman he’d once openly flirted with. “Ambrose Quince was under suspicion of murder—his wife’s murder. I couldn’t release funds to him.”

“But you could have appointed a trustee. You could have set up an account to pay a housekeeper and buy the children’s clothing.” Lucy ticked off all the things he should have done and hadn’t.

Pauley turned red with anger, answering indignantly, “I guess Ambrose didn’t mention my offer to do those very things if the children came in to Eclipse and lived with an appointed guardian.”

“So you would have taken both mother and father from them?” It was more of a flat statement than a question. “Maybe that was always your intent, to take Ambrose and Lucy Quince out of the picture so you could control Lucy’s money.” She spoke of them both as though they weren’t in the room.

Having felt the swipe of Lucy’s fury as she’d smacked him in the barn, Ambrose wouldn’t have been surprised to see her crawl across Pauley’s desk and box his ears.

The Lucy of old had been a pouter and a door-slammer, not one for physical confrontation. This was a side of Lucy Ambrose hadn’t known. Entertained though he was by Pauley’s discomfort, Lucy’s words made Ambrose uneasy. He’d missed seeing something important about her disappearance.

Pauley mopped his face and said, “You were gone.” He stopped, backtracked and changed his words. “I mean, Lucille Quince went missing under disturbing circumstances.”

Ambrose had warned her on the way into Eclipse, the banker could, and probably would, block access to her account. Nevertheless, she forged on, prodding him into a sweat.

“Well, I’m back. You can stop this foolishness right now. What will it take, sir, for you to agree that I am who I am?”

It was a fair question. The silence in the room lengthened until Lucy stood abruptly and said in that same unemotional tone, “Thank you for your time. I’ll be seeking legal counsel to straighten this out. Please be certain that you have a prepared accounting of my money when I close my account.”

With that, looking at neither man, she moved from the room, ignoring Steve Pauley’s sputtered, “Now see here, Lucy.” He grimaced and corrected himself, “I mean, Mrs. Quince.” The banker’s voice continued to increase in volume until he was yelling, “Damn it, this bank can’t give money out to anyone who walks in claiming to be Lucy Quince.”

But he was ranting at a closed door. Ambrose knew how he felt. It had happened to him a lot when dealing with Lucy.

Before Ambrose left his office, Pauley spoke to him in a conciliatory tone. “Quince, make her understand. I’ll be glad to advance her money from the account if you let the Double-Q stand good for it.”

The banker’s look changed to calculating as he accompanied Ambrose to the door and explored opportunities he could exploit.

At the rate Luce had previously spent money it wouldn’t take but a couple of months to have the Double-Q broke and borrowing again. Pauley didn’t offer a deal and they both knew it. But the posed question hung silently between them. Did Ambrose trust
this
Lucy with his ranch and its future?

“My wife can always draw from my account. We don’t need her money—but if the day comes that we do, Pauley, like she said, have the books ready for an accounting.”

Ambrose tugged his hat over his forehead and joined Lucy, who’d already moved through the lobby and stood waiting for him at the exit.

Her appearance had drawn a lot of speculative glances and even some hesitant nods when they’d arrived in the buckboard, but no one had actually approached her for conversation.

She stood alone, an island surrounded by curious faces. And just like that, her chin went up and her shoulders straightened, assuming the cloak of superiority Lucille McKenna Quince had always worn. Any fool could see it was her.

Ambrose felt his lips twitch into a smile when he took her arm and nodded good day to the gawkers. “Satisfied?” he asked as he steered her to the boardwalk that lined the street. Instead of the disappointment he expected, Lucy seemed pleased with the meeting’s outcome.

“Anything particular you need to pick up at Bailey’s?” he asked when she didn’t answer his first question.

The sheriff owned the mercantile at the end of the street but he let his wife do the bulk of the work running it. Ambrose figured Comfort Bailey had missed Lucy, if for no other reason than the business she’d brought to the store, but he wasn’t eager for them to resume their acquaintance. Apparently, neither was Lucy.

“I gave my list to Brody,” Lucy answered absently. “I believe I’ll have a piece of pie and a cup of coffee.”

She stepped from the wooden planking to the dust of the street, crossing to the restaurant. Ambrose hurried to accompany her, trying to disguise the way she’d left him standing in the dirt to strike out on her own.

The little diner had been open as long as he could remember, switching cooks and owners willy-nilly. But it had only ever been known as “the place next to the mercantile.”

Once seated, Lucy looked around the small café, counting the customers, the tables, and reading the fly-specked menu thoroughly. When she saw Ambrose watching, she grinned and said, “Professional curiosity.”

The smile flashed through him, warming a cold place inside. Since this morning’s wrestling match in the barn, she’d resumed talking to the air above his head. But she’d forgotten herself for a moment and sent him a real smile. He wanted more of them.

He cleared his throat and offered her what he didn’t have to spend, recognizing the woeful habit ingrained by years of living with her. “If you need to buy something, you can draw on the Quince account.”

His words weren’t even finished before she waved them aside. After she’d ordered a slice of apple pie and coffee and he did likewise, she answered.

“I appreciate your offer, but I didn’t go to the bank needing money.”

Ambrose waited for her explanation. Her smile was gone, her face was pale and her eyes glittered like polished blue stone.

“If you didn’t set out to murder me…” She paused, waiting as the cook delivered the pie and coffee. Audience gone, Lucy warmed to her topic, shaking the fork at him to punctuate her point.

“If I didn’t run off from my children…” She stopped, glaring at him again before adding, “Which I didn’t. And you didn’t burn me and try to stomp me to death after slicing pieces from my skin, which you
say
you didn’t—then Stephen Pauley is the next most likely suspect to be investigated.”

She wrinkled her nose at the pie, made of undercooked, half-raw apples and burned crust, interrupting her discussion of crime to comment on the taste of the dessert. “Mine’s better.”

Speculatively glancing around she observed, “This would be a good location for a restaurant.”

“There’s already one here.” He pointed out the obvious.

She cocked her head and snorted derisively, pushing the coffee and pie away. “Is there? It doesn’t even have a name.”

Delivering her words to the dirty tablecloth, Lucy cleared her throat and said, “There will be no more of that carrying on such as you started in the barn earlier today, Mr. Quince.”

Ambrose shifted uncomfortably on the café chair. He had the hard-on from hell and his head still ached where she’d slammed him with the tin feed scoop. He took a pull from his coffee, which was hog swill compared to Lucy’s. He smiled slowly around the bitter taste, reaching across the table, tipping her chin and forcing her gaze up to meet his. “Oh, I think you can bet they’ll be plenty more of that, Lucille. You were gone three years and owe me back-time when it comes to bed sports.”

Fire flamed in her eyes and her teeth unlocked enough to grit out, “You’re disgusting.”

Ambrose slid his thumb across her full lower lip. “Yep, and horny as hell too, sweetheart, so be careful the way you sashay that fine ass of yours around me, or you’ll find your skirts around your ears and my cock solid inside of you where it belongs.”

Lucy hid behind a combative expression. “I didn’t come back to Eclipse to take up with you again. I came to find the miscreant who abused me and left me in the desert.”

“So you trust that I’m not the one who carved you up and left you to die?” he asked.

She jerked her head from his hand, answering coolly, “You’ve not been proven innocent. You’re just not my number one suspect anymore.”

* * * * *

Her trip to Eclipse had left her restless. Or maybe it was the simmering arousal she’d experienced since Ambrose had trapped her in the tack room. For whatever reason, when sleep eluded her, Lucy rose early and started breakfast. After shaping the loaves and getting the oven started, she stepped outside to find cooler temperatures.

Fresh butter would be good today.
She hurried to the icehouse but, unable to overcome her aversion to the dark, cramped space she peered wistfully inside without entering Even bending over to peer into the cool interior was too much, bringing on the familiar constriction in her chest and shortness of breath that came from sheer panic. Disgusted with herself, she headed for the barn to grain Sheba, mumbling aloud as she groomed her mare.

Her mutterings were interrupted when Hamilton rode into the barn ready for breakfast and shocking her at the lateness of the hour.

“What are you doing out here this time of morning?” He looked worried. “Are you not cooking today? I’m here for the first eats.” His tone was almost plaintive, restoring Lucy’s humor.

They walked out of the barn together and she quipped, “If you want the good meals to keep coming, Hamilton, better keep to the right side of my temper.”

He barked laughter at her threat and kept pace as she hurried toward the kitchen. Before they reached their destination, the back door flew open and Ambrose stepped outside.

“What in hell are you two doing out there together?” He roared the words at both of them like an accusation, but he was glaring at Lucy.

Since their return to the Double-Q the day before, he’d been herding her like a stallion cornering a mare. Lucy had made sure he didn’t catch her alone, deciding for the sake of the children to avoid open warfare. But this time she refused to back down.

She plowed to a stop, glaring at him. “Since Hamilton Quince would save a rattlesnake before he’d rescue me, your inquiry is the mark of an idiot.”

Anger made her brave and she mounted the steps, pushing past him to the kitchen. He followed her back inside, glaring at her.

She snapped, “I need some milk. You’ve got an icehouse. Put that vivid imagination of yours to work and figure out how to get some for me if you want to eat this morning.”

He didn’t take well to orders. Ambrose stomped from the kitchen, slamming the door behind him and when it bounced open from the force, slammed it again.

As she watched, he headed for the barn, hat pulled low, stride filled with fury, pausing long enough to snarl something at his brother. When he disappeared inside, Lucy started breakfast, intending to shun him at the morning meal.

It disappointed her that it was Alex who brought a crock of cold milk to the kitchen. She wanted to yell at Ambrose again. She wielded the wooden skimmer, raking it across the top of the milk, scooping up the thick cream and imagining it was Ambrose’s head she scalped.

Likewise, in her imagination, it was his brains she rattled as she shook the jam jar until cream became butter. She didn’t realize she was muttering to herself ’til Brody asked, “What’s insufferable mean?”

“Ambrose Quince,” Lucy snapped.

Brody’s cheeks dimpled when she grinned. “Oh, it means stubborn.”

“Close enough,” Lucy answered grimly.

She scrambled up two dozen eggs and fried potatoes, indignant and eager to give him a direct snub. But Ambrose struck first. He skipped the meal.

In retaliation, she left the back door open, letting the smell of fresh-baked bread carry in the air, hoping he’d regret his insult when his empty belly started growling and he thought about butter melting on hot rolls.