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Find it, or put a bullet in your brainpan. But he hadn't known it would feel like this. It never had before. But this time, with this person…she filled him up like no one else. And he figured it was the same with her. "I want you."
"I think you just had me, Mr. Morris."
Her laughter tickled his neck, warm breath washing a cool patch traced by her tongue, drawn by her lips. Just a bruise, but as sure and real as a brand. He belonged to her. He knew that. But he didn't know-
The words slipped out before he could think them through. "I want you, forever."
That about said it, all right.
He felt her shiver, and then her lips found his.
"Forever is a long time," she said.
They laughed about that, embracing in the shadows.
They actually laughed.
She came ru
Leonora ran through the blowing dust, her hair a blond tangle, and she was up on the driver's box sitting next to him before he could slow the horses-her arms around him, her lips on his cheek, her little flute of a voice all happy. "Quince! Oh, Quince! It
is you! We thought you were dead!"
He shook his head. His eyes were on the big house. It hadn't changed. Not in the looks department, anyway. The occupants…now that was a different story.
"Miss me?" he asked, and his tone of voice was not a pleasant thing.
"I'm sorry." She said it like she'd done something silly, like maybe she'd spilled some salt at the supper table or something. "I'm glad you came back." She hugged him. "It'll be different now. We've both had a chance to grow up."
He chuckled at that one, and she got it crossed up. "Oh, Quince, we'll work it out…you'll see. We both made mistakes. But it's not too late to straighten them out." She leaned over and kissed his neck, her tongue working between her lips.
Quincey flushed with anger and embarrassment. The bitch. And with the box right there, behind them, in plain view. With him dressed head to toe in black. God, Leonora had the perceptive abilities of a blind armadillo.
He shoved her, hard. She tumbled off the driver's box. Her skirts caught on the seat, tearing as she fell. She landed in the dirt, petticoats bunched up around her waist.
She cussed him real good. But he didn't hear her at all, because suddenly he could see everything so clearly. The golden wedding band on her finger didn't mean much. Not to her it didn't, so it didn't mean anything to him. But the fist-sized bruises on her legs did.
He'd seen enough. He'd drawn a couple conclusions. Hal Owens hadn't changed. Looking at those bruises, that was for damn sure. And it was misery that filled up Leonora's belly-that had to be the answer which had eluded him for so long-and at present it seemed that she was having to make do with her own. Knowing Leonora as he did, he figured that she was probably about ready for a change of menu, and he wanted to make it real clear that he wasn't going to be the next course.
"You bastard!" she yelled. "You're finished around here! You can't just come walkin' back into town, big as you please! This ain't Morrisville, anymore, Quincey! It's Owensville! And Hal's go
She was right about that. He didn't belong here anymore. This wasn't his world. His world was contained in a big black box. That was the only place for him anymore. Anywhere else there was only trouble.
Didn't matter where he went these days, folks were always threatening him.
Threats seemed to be his lot in life.
Take Arthur Holmwood, for instance. He was a big one for threats. The morning after the Westenra's party, he'd visited Quincey's lodgings, bringing with him Dr. Seward and a varnished box with brass hinges.
"I demand satisfaction," he'd said, opening the box and setting it on the table.
Quincey stared down at the pistols. Flintlocks. Real pioneer stuff. "Hell, Art," he said, snatching his Peacemaker from beneath his breakfast napkin (Texas habits died hard, after all), "let's you and me get real satisfied, then."
The doctor went ahead and pissed in the pot. "Look here, Morris. You're in England now. A man does things in a certain way here. A gentleman, I should say."
Quincey was sufficiently cowed to table his Peacemaker. "Maybe I am a fish out of water, like you say, Doc." He examined one of the dueling pistols. "But ain't these a little old-fashioned, even for England? I thought this kind of thing went out with powdered wigs and such."
"A concession to you." Holmwood sneered. "We understand that in your Texas, men duel in the streets quite regularly."
Quincey gri
"The fact remains that you compromised Miss Lucy's honor."
"Who says?"
Seward straightened. "I myself observed the way you thrust yourself upon her last night, on the terrace. And I saw Miss Lucy leave the party in your charge."
"You get a real good look, Doc?" Quincey's eyes narrowed. "You get a right proper fly-on-a-dung-pile close-up view, or are you just telling tales out of school?"
Holmwood's hand darted out. Fisted, but he did his business with a pair of kid gloves knotted in his grip. The gloves slapped the Texan's left cheek and came back for his right, at which time Quincey Morris exploded from his chair and kneed Arthur Holmwood in the balls.
Holmwood was a tall man. He seemed to go down in sections. Doctor Seward trembled as Quincey retrieved his Peacemaker, and he didn't calm down at all when the Texan holstered the weapon.
Quincey didn't see any point to stretching things out, not when there was serious fence-mending to do at the Westenra's house. "I hope you boys will think on this real seriously," he said as he stepped over Holmwood and made for the door.
There was a Mexican kid pretending to do some work behind the big house. Quincey gave him a nickel and took him around front.
The kid wasn't happy to see the box. He crossed himself several times. Then he spit on his palms and took one end, delighted to find that the box wasn't as heavy as it looked.
They set it in the parlor. Quincey had to take a chair and catch his breath. After all that time on the ship, and then more time sitting on his butt slapping reins to a pair of sway-backs, he wasn't much good. Of course, this wasn't as tough as when he'd had to haul the box from the Westenra family tomb, all by his lonesome, but it was bad enough. By the time he remembered to thank the kid, the kid had already gone.
Nothing for it, then.
Nothing, but to do it.
The words came back to him, echoing in his head. And it wasn't the voice of some European doctor, like in Stoker's book. It was Seward's voice.
"One moment's courage, and it is done."
He shook those words away. He was alone here. The parlor hadn't changed much since the day he'd left to tour the world. The curtains were heavy and dark, and the deep shadows seemed to brush his cheek, one moment buckskin-rough, next moment satin-smooth.
Like the shadows in the Westenra's garden. The shadows where he'd held Lucy to him. Held her so close.
No. He wouldn't think of that. Not now. He had work to do. He couldn't start thinking about how it had been, because then he'd certainly start thinking about how it might be, again…