The Ballad of Emma O'Toole

“I’ll be damned,” Logan muttered. “But I don’t know the first thing about mining.”

“Well, if the way you play poker’s any indication, you’re smart enough to learn. In any case, if you take what’s in this envelope and put it to work, you could end up comfortably well off, if not downright rich. Think what that security could mean for The missus, here.”

He glanced toward Emma, who stood cloaked in stubborn silence. The girl hadn’t asked for this, Logan reminded himself. She deserved a respectable life, with a safe, cozy home, a wardrobe of pretty dresses and no worries about where her next meal was coming from. The last thing she needed was a man dragging her and her baby from town to town, living in shoddy hotel rooms, flush one day and penniless the next.

Could he really settle down? For seven years he’d been on the move, always looking over his shoulder, never daring to put down roots. But Utah Territory was a world away from the Louisiana bayous. Even after the notoriety of today’s trial, who would come here looking for a man named Christián Girard—a man whose trail, and life, had ended in the murky depths of a Louisiana swamp?

He was as safe here as he could ever hope to be.

He would make himself believe that and act accordingly.

Wrapped in her shawl, Emma huddled between Doc and Logan on the swaying buggy seat. Her fingers toyed with the slim gold band on her finger—the token that declared her, before the world, a married woman.

She felt more like a prisoner than a wife. The last thing she’d have expected was to end the day as Mrs. Logan Devereaux. But that had been her choice, Emma reminded herself. She’d wed him to avenge Billy John’s death. But short of killing the man, how was she supposed to make him pay?

The country road wound through a grove of budding alders and crossed the bed of a shallow creek. Emma’s gaze followed the flight of a golden eagle as it soared westward to disappear over the snow-clad Wasatch Mountains. The sun hung low in the sky, streaking the clouds with flame and crimson. By the time they reached Park City it would be dark.

A quiver of growing awareness crept through Emma’s body. Tonight would be her wedding night.

She remembered the urgent gropings and thrustings on the hard-packed floor of Billy John’s shanty, with the wind whistling through the whip-sawn boards. They’d never seen each other undressed. The weather had been too cold, the need too urgent on the rare occasions when they’d been able to snatch the chance to be alone.

Emma could count the times it had happened on the fingers of one hand. She’d known it was wrong, but it had been what Billy John wanted, and she would have done anything to please him.

Logan would want the same thing. As her husband he would expect it, even demand it as his right.

What would happen if she refused him?

Her gaze crept to the hand that lay lightly on the knee of his fawn-colored breeches. His long fingers looked powerful enough to crush her in their grip. The bruises had faded from when he’d grabbed her through the jail cell bars, but the memory of them had not. Logan was a big man, his body as lean and sinewy as a cougar’s. He would certainly be able to force her if he chose to. She would have to be prepared for that.

She could plead her delicate condition. True, she’d heard enough women’s talk to know that unless a wife was unusually frail or prone to miscarriage, there was no reason to abstain except in the last weeks of pregnancy. But being a man, Logan might not know that. The excuse might work.

But what if it didn’t?

As the twilight deepened, the spring night grew chilly. Emma shivered beneath her shawl. She was cold, hungry and exhausted. All the same, if she’d had the strength, she might have leaped out of the buggy and fled into the woods rather than face what she’d be facing tonight.

“Are you all right, girl?” Doc had done most of the talking on the long ride. “You’ve been mighty quiet.”

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

“Won’t be much longer now. Look yonder, you can see the lights of Park City between those two hills.”

“You can let us off at the Park City Hotel,” Logan said. “It might be smarter to pull up by the back door. That way I can get to the desk and pay for a room without attracting a lot of attention.”

“I can do better than that,” Doc said. “Give me a little of that cash before I let you off. I can drive around front, get you a room and order some food sent up. You can go up the back stairs and nobody will even know you’re there. How does that sound?”

“Perfect.” Logan fished some bills out of the envelope and stuffed them into the old man’s coat pocket. “That should be plenty. Whatever’s left is yours. Tell them to leave the key in the door and bring dinner up as soon as it’s ready. After ten days in jail, I’m looking forward to a decent meal and a soft bed.”

Emma twisted the ring on her finger. How easy life became with a little cash, she thought. Just like that, Logan had arranged for a room in the finest hotel in town, with a hot dinner to be brought to their door. She’d never even set foot inside the Park City Hotel. It was a place for people with money, and She’d never had a cent to spare.

All her life Emma had been poor. She’d been fifteen when her widowed mother fell sick with consumption and sixteen when the good woman died. Since then she’d been on her own, taking whatever work her strong young hands could do. Meeting Billy John had awakened dreams of a better life—a cozy little home with children around the table and a man who’d come home to her every night. It didn’t matter that they’d never be rich. As long as he loved her, she would be the happiest woman in the world.

Now she found herself wed to a dark stranger, a man with the means to provide every material thing she could imagine wanting.

But it was a cold bargain she’d made. Any chance of affection between them, let alone love, was as remote as the dark side of the moon.

Only after they’d found the key in the door did Emma realize that Doc had rented the bridal suite.

Emma stared at the mauve satin coverlet and ecru lace canopy that draped the double bed. Twin cupids were carved into the headboard. The bedclothes, which had been turned down, looked as thick and soft as fresh winter snow.

It was the most elegant bed Emma had ever seen. But she would sleep on the cold, hard floor before she’d share it with Logan Devereaux.

Aside from the issue of the bed, the room was warmly inviting. A fresh blaze crackled in the small, tiled stove, which was flanked by two high-backed rockers upholstered in green velvet. A Turkish carpet in hues of rose, pink and green covered the floor. A tall wardrobe, with full-length mirrors on the double doors, stood in one corner. On the far wall, a doorway opened into a bathroom with a tub, a basin and—wonder of wonders—a flush toilet.

Hands thrust into his pockets, Logan surveyed their quarters. “Well, is this place fine enough to suit you, Mrs. Devereaux?”

“You needn’t make fun of me,” Emma said. “I’m not ashamed of how I’ve had to live or the honest work I’ve done to survive. If you must have my answer, I judge this place to be a little too fine for sensible taste.”

He chuckled, his smile a flash of white against the deep gold of his skin. She knew nothing about the man’s background, Emma realized, except that he’d made his living as a gambler.

“I wasn’t making fun of you, Emma,” he said. “You’ve a level head, a quick wit and a determined spirit—qualities I admire in a woman. I’m hoping we can at least be friends.”

“Friends!” Anger, combined with frustration and bone deep weariness, burst out of her. “I’d rather be friends with a rattlesnake!”

He exhaled, raking a hand through his rumpled black hair. “Fine, have it your way. Tomorrow you can rail at me to your heart’s content. But tonight I’m worn raw and as grumpy as a buckshot bear. All I want is to eat dinner, go to bed and try to forget the past ten days ever happened.” He glanced toward the bathroom. “Ladies first. But try not to take too much time or you might find me pounding on the door.”

“Oh!” With an indignant huff, Emma wheeled and bolted into the bathroom. Slamming the door behind her and clicking the lock, she sank onto the edge of the tub and buried her face in her hands. Her body shook with dry sobs. How had she gotten herself into this awful mess? And how was she going to get out of it?

She could offer Logan a divorce. He would certainly be glad to oblige. But that would take away her power to punish him. Even more vital was the matter of support for herself and her child. Maybe she could survive in a run-down miner’s shanty with no money. But her baby could easily sicken and die in such a place. She couldn’t risk her precious child for the sake of her pride.

She’d considered selling Billy John’s claim for whatever she could get. But who would buy a worthless outcrop that hadn’t yielded enough silver to buy a decent pair of boots?

It was time she stopped blubbering and faced reality. For now at least, she needed what a husband could provide—food, shelter and security. She would accept that much as her due. But as for the rest, she knew she could never love Logan, and she certainly couldn’t expect him to love her. She was trapped in this arrangement, just as he was.

By the time Emma had finished with the bathroom, dinner had arrived. Two covered plates sat on an oval silver tray, along with gleaming cutlery and linen napkins rolled into silver rings. The stemmed crystal glasses were so delicate that Emma feared they might shatter if she breathed on them.

The staff had also delivered a leather valise that Logan explained he’d left before his arrest. He had it in hand as he stepped into the bathroom.

“I know you’re hungry,” he said. “Go ahead and eat. No need to wait for me.”

As the bathroom door closed, Emma took her seat. The tray sat on the small table between the two chairs. Its elegance caused Emma to hesitate. She’d never eaten such a fine meal in her life. What if she broke or spilled something?

Lifting the knob on one domed plate cover, she took a cautious peek. Mouthwatering aromas teased her senses, roast beef with potatoes and gravy, fresh-baked bread…She inhaled, feasting with her nose. Her belly growled with hunger.

But she was a lady, she reminded herself, not some starving wastrel Logan Devereaux had rescued off the street. He needed to know that she could wait politely without wolfing down every scrap put before her. Leaning back in her chair, Emma folded her arms. The chair was soft, the glowing stove deliciously warm. Her eyelids began to droop.

“Emma?”

She opened her eyes. He was gazing down at her, his face freshly shaved, his hair glistening with drops of water.

“Did you have a nice nap?” His eyes held a glint of mischief.

Still muzzy, she blinked up at him. “How…long have I been asleep?”

“Not long. But your dinner might be getting cold. I thought I told you to go ahead and eat.”

“You did. I chose to wait.”

“Well, let’s not wait any longer.” He whisked the covers off the plates. Emma’s dinner was still hot, the beef smothered in rich brown gravy, accompanied by mashed potatoes, glazed carrot slices and plump, golden dinner rolls with strawberry jam. Spreading her napkin on her lap, she used her fork to spear a sliver of meat. Her first taste was so sublime that she almost wept.

“Is something wrong?” Logan asked.

Emma shook her head. “It’s only that I’ve never eaten such a wonderful meal in my life.”

“It’s just roast beef and gravy.”

“I know. But it’s so good. And I’m so hungry.”

Something glimmered in the depths of his eyes. He glanced away, and when he looked back it was replaced by the chilly gaze she’d come to recognize. “Eat it up while it’s warm,” he said. “And remember there’s more where that came from. I may be a coldhearted bastard, but I’d never let a woman starve.”

Emma’s scramble for a clever reply came up empty. She supposed she should thank him for the meal. But after what he’d done to Billy John, he owed her more than a man could repay in a hundred years.

Her gaze shifted to the bed. Awkward as things were between them now, they were bound to get worse. When the judge had counseled her to be a submissive wife Emma had known exactly what the old goat meant. But that didn’t mean she had to heed his advice. If Logan so much as laid a hand on her tonight…

“Champagne?” Logan had opened a slender bottle and was holding it with the lip poised above the rim of her glass.

“You ordered champagne?”

“It was included with the room. A gift from the hotel to the happy newlyweds. Have you ever had champagne, Emma?”

“I’ve tasted beer. It was awful.”

“There’s nothing awful about this. Try it.” He poured two fingers into her glass. Swirling bubbles effervesced to rainbow sparks in the lamplight. Logan sat back in his chair, watching her, his eyes hooded in shadow.

Emma lifted the glass to her lips, then paused as a thought struck her. “You’re not trying to get me drunk, are you?”

“Lord, no! Just taste it.”

Tipping the glass, Emma took a tentative sip. The glowing liquid burst like sunlight on her tongue. Its flavor was elusive—fresh and slightly tart. “Oh,” she said, taking another sip. “Oh, my goodness!”

“More?”

“Just a little.” She indicated a small measure with her fingers. “Too much might not be good for the baby.”

“Oh, that’s right, the baby.” He poured her another two fingers of champagne. Emma took tiny sips, savoring the taste as she gathered her courage. What she had to say couldn’t wait much longer.

“There’s something else that might not be good for the baby.” She glanced toward the bed. “I’m well aware of your marital rights, Logan, but you can hardly expect to…” Her voice trailed off. Color flooded her face. She barely knew the words for what she needed to tell him.

“Listen to me, Emma.” He leaned forward in his chair, his dark eyes probing hers. “I want to make this perfectly clear. You’re a beautiful, desirable woman. If things were different between us, I’d carry you to that bed, rip off those god-awful clothes and make love to you all night. But I like my women willing. I won’t force you. Until and unless you say the word, I mean to treat you like a sixty-year-old nun. Do you understand?”

“Yes…and thank you for making your position clear.” Emma stared down at her hands, her face burning. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from him, but it wasn’t this.

“That said,” he continued, “there’s something else I need to make clear. I’ve spent the past ten nights lying in my clothes on a rock-hard jail bunk. Every bone in my body feels like it’s been run through a blasted stamp mill. After dinner I plan to get undressed and climb into that bed over there for a good night’s sleep. If you want to join me, you have my word I’ll be a perfect gentleman. But I’ll be damned if I’m gentleman enough to spend the night on the floor!”

“Fine. I’ll manage somehow.” Emma took another sip of the champagne, her thoughts scrambling. “Since you plan on going right to bed, I believe I’ll take advantage of the bathtub. Believe me, living in a miner’s shanty’s been no picnic, either. At least the jail was warm and they gave you regular meals.”

“If you could call that pig slop they served up ‘meals.’” He raised his glass. “Here’s to better times for both of us, Mrs. Emma O’Toole Devereaux. Will you drink to that?”

Emma hesitated, then lifted her glass to meet his. He touched the delicate brim to hers, then drained the contents. Emma did the same, feeling the sparkle all the way down her throat. It was a truce of sorts, she supposed, and a necessary one while she gained her bearings in this new marriage. But she hadn’t forgotten her promise to Billy John.

She would find a way to make this man wish he’d never been born.

They finished their dinner in awkward conversation. Emma learned that he was from New Orleans and that his father had been a prosperous ship chandler. But when, over dainty strawberry tartlets, she’d asked him why he hadn’t continued in the family business, Logan had evaded her question.

“Does every son have to follow in his father’s footsteps?”

“Certainly not, but it seems a more practical choice than becoming a gambler.”

“Maybe I wasn’t cut out for standing behind a counter. Maybe I wanted to see new country.”

“Were there others who could take over the business? Brothers, perhaps?”

“No brothers, but plenty of cousins and uncles. I imagine they’ve stepped in by now. My father would be elderly, if he’s still alive.”

“So you’re not in touch with your parents?”

A shadow passed behind his eyes. “That’s something I don’t talk about.”

“No brothers. What about sisters?”

“Just one. She died young. Something else I don’t talk about.” He rose, crumpling his napkin on the tray. “And now, since we both seem to have finished our dinner, I’ll put this out for the hired help and bid you good-night.”

Opening the door, Logan set the tray in the hall. A Do Not Disturb sign hung on the inside knob. He moved the sign to the outside before closing and locking the door. His hands loosened the knot of his tie and reached down to begin unbuckling his belt. “My invitation to share the bed stands,” he said, glancing toward Emma. “If I crowd you, just give me a kick. I’ll get the message.”

As the weight of his belt dropped his trousers, Emma bolted for the bathroom.

Slamming the door, she leaned against it. Her heart was hammering, as if she’d expected Logan to follow her in and drag her to the bed. What was wrong with her? She’d worked in a boardinghouse full of men. Weary miners stumbling around in their underwear was a sight that barely raised an eyebrow. As for her new husband, he’d seemed sincere in his promise not to consummate their marriage.

And even if it came to that, it wasn’t as if she was a virgin. She’d conceived a child, for heaven’s sake. What was she so afraid of?

Plugging the tub drain, she turned on the tap. The water that gushed out wasn’t piping hot, but it was warm enough to be pleasant. A jar of bath salts stood on a wall shelf above the tub. Emma dumped a liberal sprinkling into the water. As she undressed, clouds of lavender-scented foam billowed above the rim of the tub. Had she used too much? Never mind, it smelled heavenly.

With a sigh, she sank into the warm bubbles. What luxury! The scented water was like warm satin on her skin. She lay against the back of the tub, her breasts rising like islands in a foamy sea. Her nipples were darker than she remembered, the nubs swollen and exquisitely sensitive to the touch.

They’d never really been explored by anyone other than herself. Her lovemaking with Billy John had been over by the time it had scarcely begun. Emma couldn’t say she’d disliked it. But she’d sensed there was something missing. Something she craved and needed.

Would it be different with Logan Devereaux? Closing her eyes, she recalled the sight of Logan’s hand, resting on his knee—long fingers, golden-brown skin lightly dusted with silky black hair. She imagined being stroked by that hand, the sensation of his palm skimming the tips of her breasts, gliding down her belly…

A liquid ache stirred in her loins. How would it feel to surrender—to be utterly possessed by that powerful male body?

Emma’s eyes flew open as the awful truth struck her. For all her pretensions, there was a secret part of her that wanted it to happen.

What was wrong with her? Her one true love and the father of her child had been dead less than a fortnight. His killer, whom she had every reason to despise, was in the next room getting ready for bed. She ought to be seething with hatred, her mind roiling with schemes for revenge. Instead, here she was, sated with fine food and champagne and lying in a scented tub while her mind wandered down carnal paths.

A man like Logan would have known a lot of women, Emma reminded herself. He would be a skilled seducer, an expert at bending any female to his will. He would know exactly what to say, what to do, where and how to touch her. And he probably saw her as easy prey—a helpless lamb at the mercy of his appetites. Whatever happened, she couldn’t let herself forget what kind of man he really was—a killer who had taken her love away from her.

Closing her eyes again, she willed herself to picture every step of the shooting—Billy John, desperate and scared, trying to bluff his way out of a bad situation with a useless gun; Logan, coolly drawing his derringer and pulling the trigger on the count of three. The jury had let him off easy. But one truth remained. As a gambler, Logan would be experienced at reading people. Surely he would’ve recognized a bluff when he saw it. He must have sensed he was looking at a frightened boy, incapable of violence. Yet he had aimed and fired, and Billy John had died.

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