A few hours later, looking back on that offer with hindsight, J.D. wished he'd swallowed his pride and asked Buck to start with some advice on what to talk about while having dinner with a lady. Recounting his adventures since he got to Four Corners was all fine and good, but most of the stories ended up with gunfire and someone--often several someones--lying face-down in the dirt. On the one hand, he felt really proud of the things he'd helped accomplish since he got here, but on the other, he wasn't sure Amelia would want to hear about all that blood and dying over a plate of Mrs. Turnbull's fried chicken and mashed potatoes.
He worried about the problem all the way from the boarding house to the hotel, then worried about it some more while he jittered in place, waiting for Amelia to come downstairs. After a lifetime of talking first and thinking over what he'd said afterwards or not at all, this rampaging uncertainty was another new and not-quite-pleasant experience, and it set him to wondering how Buck could claim that the whole business of consorting with women was dead simple. Hell, it hadn't even been simple with Emily, and there he'd known right where he stood and where he was heading. Or trying to head, anyway, except that something always seemed to keep getting in the way.
J.D. halted that train of thought with a sudden jerk, reminding himself again that there was no comparison at all between the two situations, and he'd do himself a favor if he stopped trying to find one. Amelia was going to be in town for another five or six days. During that time he hoped he'd have a chance to enjoy considerably more of her company, but he wasn't planning on offering her any disrespect. From the sound of it, and the way she acted with Buck, she'd had more than enough of that in her life already.
He just wished his unruly imagination wasn't *quite* so... unruly.
That possibility flew straight out the window when he looked up to discover Amelia descending the stairs, clad in a gown of vibrant green which displayed a wealth of fair skin at her shoulders and throat, and seemed to cling to her like a second, satin skin. J.D. would have hotly denied that he knew the slightest thing about female fashions, but he'd grown up serving a rich household, seeing haughty ladies come and go in the finest clothes money could buy. To his mind, there wasn't a one of them who could have held a candle to Amelia in that moment.
"Am I late?" she inquired as she reached the landing. J.D. swallowed hard and shook his head mutely.
"I didn't expect to be socializing." She made a casual gesture towards the gown. "I'm afraid this is the best I brought."
"It's the prettiest dress I've ever seen," J.D. assured her with complete honesty.
Amelia leaned closer to him and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Then I'm afraid you can't have been paying close attention."
J.D. blinked at her, wondering what he'd said wrong this time.
"It's a joke," Amelia added, in the same soft, confidential tone. "You're supposed to laugh."
He blinked at her again, then, with an almost disconcerting abruptness, his nervousness bled away and he did laugh, not at her comment itself but at how much he was letting this get to him.
Hell, you weren't this nervous when you got off that train in St. Louis and hopped a stagecoach for parts unknown, he reminded himself. Quit being an idiot.
After that, he was fine, more or less. He pretty much remembered not to run off randomly at the mouth, though when he had half a bottle of wine in him, he did go on a bit, telling her about the downfall of Marshal Top-Hat Bob Spikes. The wine was Amelia's selection, since he'd never gotten around to learning anything more about the stuff than that it came in a couple of different colors. He didn't think a whole lot of the taste, but he discovered its reputation as a sissified drink was undeserved. It kicked more like whiskey than beer, and by the second or third glass, the beginnings of a foggy buzz had taken to running around in his head.
"You really love it here, don't you, J.D.?" Amelia inquired, when he'd gotten to the end of his story. Somewhere along the line he'd asked her to call him "J.D." because even though he enjoyed the respectability of having folks call him "Mr. Dunne," it just never sounded like his own name.
J.D. nodded, knowing he'd never be able to put into words why a dry little scrap of nowhere that held so many bad memories for her was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He took another sip of wine, then cautiously set the fancy, long-stemmed glass back down on the linen tablecloth.
"When I was a kid, I used to read all about what it was like out here. I can't even remember a time when I didn't want to come. And things worked out even better than I expected. Running into Chris and the others, I mean. Getting to be sheriff. Buck thought for sure I was going to get myself killed, but I figure I've got the job pretty much under control now. Ain't that hard, most of the time. Well, except that there's a whole bunch of writing to do, papers that need to go over to the territorial capital and stuff like that. Ain't too bad, though, 'cause my handwriting's pretty good. Mama made sure I got more education than I'm ever going to need. It was real important to her--I guess 'cause she never had a chance for any schooling herself. Her father didn't think there was any point to it, her being a girl."
Amelia didn't seem to be affected at all by having drunk as much wine as he had. With a sad, distant expression, she said, "My father believed the same thing. Fortunately for me, my mother was educated in Boston. She tutored me herself when he was away from the house."
"That's hard to believe." As soon as he saw the flash of hurt in her eyes, he could have kicked himself. Hastily, he blurted out, "I didn't mean that like it sounded, honest! I just mean, the way you talk and everything, I figured you must've gone to some fancy finishing school. The fella who owned the estate where I worked back in New York, he had two girls. They were educated all the way over in Paris, France, and they didn't talk no better'n you do. Heck, I bet you know a few words even Ezra don't."
He'd talked about the gambler as he was recounting various stories to her, so that comment earned him a smile.
"My mother was a very good teacher, and I suppose I have the knack for it. She taught me to speak as she did, and it has always stood me in very good stead."
The smile bled away, leaving Amelia's face sad and bleak again. Picking up her half-empty wine glass, she drank the remains before setting it down again. "I didn't repay her very well, did I? Running away. Leaving her to face my father and the scandal."
"You sorry about what you did?" he asked, choosing the words carefully. "I mean about runnin' away, not about hurting your mama."
"Not for a moment. The life I was living... It was killing me. When I left, I didn't know if I'd survive or if I'd ever find happiness, but... I had to try. Can you understand that?"
"Yeah, I can understand it real well. Mama always wanted me to go to college. She was a servant in a rich man's house her whole life, and her father and mother before her. She wanted more than that for me, dreamed about it my whole life. She'd saved some money, but when she died, there just wasn't enough. I stood beside her grave and promised her I'd do my very best to make her proud of me. When I said it, I thought that meant saving up the rest of the money, doing things like she wanted me to. So I tried for a few months, I really did, but I just couldn't keep on the way I'd been before. Mama was the only reason I stayed as long as I did, and with her gone... I couldn't live there. So, I bought myself some guns and a saddle and a ticket on a train. Didn't know where I was going, didn't know what I'd find, but... I had to take the chance. Now, I guess all I can do is hope that someday I'll make something of myself out here that she can be proud of..."
He loved his new life. He was so happy that most of the time he didn't even notice that little pocket of guilt that dwelt in his heart, the one that wondered what Mama would think if she saw him now, half-a-dozen times a killer, living a life of violence that was more likely to get him dead than lead him somewhere respectable. He had never talked about any of that before, except that one time back at the Seminole village when he'd thrown his past in Buck's face like a slap, thinking he was going to be dead in a few minutes anyway so what did it matter?
"Isn't quite the same thing, I know," he went on quietly. "Mama being dead and all, but... It was the right thing for me to do. I guess it was for you, too. You ain't talked about what you found out there, but the way you dress pretty and all... I guess it worked out for you, too."
"It wasn't easy, but yes, in the end it did. I own a small business in partnership with a couple of friends, and I enjoy it. Believe it or not, when I'm not here, surrounded by so much of the past, I'm really quite a happy person," she finished with a smile.
"Don't surprise me," he returned, grinning back at her. She reached one hand across the small table, letting it rest for a moment against the back of his. Automatically, J.D. turned his hand slightly so that his fingers closed around hers. As soon as the roughness-over-warmth texture of her lacy glove registered on his palm, he let her go again and moved his hand away so hastily that he knocked over the stemmed wine goblet. It was nearly empty, but a few scarlet droplets splattered across the white linen before he could catch it.
"Dang, Mrs. Turnbull's gonna thump me," he muttered, trying to dab up the spots with his napkin.
"Who's Mrs. Turnbull? And would she really 'thump' a sheriff?"
"She runs the hotel, and darned right she would."
"I had wondered where Mr. Wheeler was nowadays." Amelia commented, reminding him again that she probably knew as many of the townsfolks as he did, if not more. Dipping her own napkin into a water glass, she shooed J.D.'s ineffectual fingers out of her way. "I haven't seen him since I arrived."
"Well, you see, he got hisself tried for murder--"
"How terrible!"
While she efficiently dealt with the spot, J.D. told her what had happened, especially enjoying her laughter when he got to the part about the hoax they'd pulled on the hired bandits.
Surreptitiously watching her while he talked, he found his imagination getting all out of hand again, making him notice the way the lamplight drew changing patterns across her hair and the skin of her shoulders. When his eyes were inevitably drawn to the shadowed hollow between the curves of her breasts, he took a good, deep breath, sat back in his chair and thought about seeing Molly Fitzpatrick naked. Molly had been a kitchen maid back at the estate, and was just about the ugliest woman he'd ever seen in his life. He'd once had the misfortune to walk through a should-have-been-locked-but-wasn't door when Molly was taking herself a bath. From that day to this, thinking back on the sight of her sitting there, sticking up out of her bathwater, was an effective way of keeping his trousers from getting too tight at embarrassing moments.
But the memory of Molly was five long years stale, and the wine was buzzing around his head, and Amelia was right in front of him, arousing a whole tangle of feelings. Some of them he was proud of, and some of them he just plain wasn't, but that didn't make them go away. He closed his fingers over his palm, where his skin still remembered the brief touch of hers, stirring up responses he understood too well and didn't really understand at all.
"J.D.?"
"Mm? He flinched guiltily, looked up and found Amelia watching him. "What did you say?"
"I think you're off the hook. Mrs. Turnbull shouldn't even notice."
"Thanks," he said, more breathless than he should've been. Her face turned so serious that he experienced a flash of mortified terror that what he was thinking about showed on his face, and not just elsewhere where she couldn't possibly see the evidence.
"Something wrong?" he asked, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
"No... I was just wondering if I should ask you for a favor. I know I have no right--"
"Sure, anything," he said quickly, and right at that moment he truly meant it.
Amelia sighed. "I was thinking it over this afternoon. I'd like to ride out to Sam's place before I leave town. Mr. Gainer says he just shut up the house and left everything where it was. I don't suppose there's much of mine left out there, but I'd like to go and look around before I tell him to sell it off. And I'd... rather not go there alone."
"When did you want to go?" he asked, drenched by a wave of pure relief that there was nothing more to it than that.
"I was thinking the day after tomorrow, if you can spare the time."
"Sure. Buck and Josiah are here, and there's nothing going on."
"We'd have to leave very first thing in the morning. I'll need to hire a buggy, just in case there is something I want to bring back. And Sam's place is in the foothills. We can make it there and back in a day, but with the buggy it'll be a long one."
"Oh, heck, I don't mind that." He glanced around at their fellow diners. Whatever initial interest they had attracted had worn itself out, and no one was paying them the least bit of attention. "If it would make things easier, I could, um, pick up my horse and meet you somewhere out of town--"
"No!" Amelia countered with unexpected vehemence. "I'm not doing anything to be ashamed of, J.D. I'd be grateful if you escort me, but I don't want you to do it if you are ashamed of it."
He didn't hesitate, not even for a breath. "Of course I ain't ashamed of it. Besides, there ain't no way you can just go off on your own. House being deserted like that, you could have squatters in it or anything. I'll talk to Jeb over at the livery tomorrow and arrange for the buggy. Better ask Mrs. Turnbull about getting us some lunch to take along, too."
"Thank you so much."
"My pleasure," he returned, meaning it. "Um... If you ain't busy tomorrow, maybe we could..."
What exactly did one do with a lady around Four Corners? He'd never before gotten far enough in his courting for that question to come up. Not, of course, that he was courting Amelia, but the same problem applied. There really wasn't any respectable form of entertainment closer than Ridge City, except for the occasional Sunday social or town dance, and nobody had arranged anything along those lines tomorrow for his personal convenience.
"If you'd care to join me for breakfast, I'd appreciate the company," Amelia suggested before he came up with a solution to the problem. "I find it rather... trying... to eat alone. After that, perhaps you can show me your jail or something."
"Can't figure that a lady wants to look at the jail," he returned, though he would have been proud to do so.
"Then perhaps we'll be able to think of something else?" She tilted her head a little to the side, waiting for his answer.
"That'd be great!"
Amelia pushed her chair back and rose before he could gather his wits together and help her with it. J.D. walked her to the stairs and said a quick good night, barely waiting until she reached the landing before he headed outside. Finding a barrel on the boardwalk next to the hotel, he sat down and leaned back against the wall, breathing in the cooling evening air while he tried to relax.
He really hated the stupid, uncontrollable cravings that plagued him more often than they left him alone these days. Walking down the street, passing some woman he didn't even know, he'd catch a whiff of perfume, and his body would go all hard and wanting. But then, back at Wickestown, with Emily paid and willing... nothing.
It was becoming only too plain that "nothing" wasn't going to be one of his problems where Amelia was concerned. What he wanted more than anything right now was to head on back to his room and get rid of the miserable, needy ache that seemed to be a near-constant thing when he was in her company. Doing for himself like that was supposed to land him blind or in hell, but he couldn't see how it was worse than buying the favors of girls like Emily. Lord knows, just about every man he knew did that, even Ezra, though he was real sneaky about it and liked to let on that he was too good for that sort of thing. J.D. figured that probably meant they all did the other, too, and just didn't talk about it. Maybe he'd have to ask Buck some time when he was going on about passing out free advice, just to see the look on his face.
A light came on in one of the upstairs rooms of the hotel, the flare of brightness catching the corner of his eye. He glanced up in time to watch Amelia come to the window to draw the curtains. Fortunately, she didn't look down to see him sitting there. Her silhouette danced briefly against the curtains, then it was gone, leaving only the warm yellowish glow of an oil flame diffused through layers of flounced gingham. From nothing more than that, his mind built him vivid pictures of her slipping free of her green satin gown, standing in the lamplight clad only in frothy white. Having nothing much else to compare, he pictured her unmentionables looking a lot like the working clothes of the girls out at Wickestown, only fancier, softer... infinitely more desirable.
Muttering a curse under his breath, J.D. slid to his feet and headed for the boarding house. The sun was down and the last of twilight would be gone in minutes. Old Sam was already making his way down the street, lighting up the campfires that burned through the night to show folks their way home. Back in New York, there was talk that it wouldn't be more than two or three years before the gas lighting in the streets began to give way to electricity, but here in Four Corners, half the folks had probably never even seen a real gaslamp.
"Evening, Sam," he called automatically as he passed the old man.
"Evening, Sheriff. Nice night, ain't it?"
J.D. had a feeling it was going to be a very sleepless night, going to bed with his head full of dreams and his body full of cravings. And if he thought tonight was bad, he wasn't sure what the heck he'd feel day after tomorrow, off somewhere in the foothills with just Amelia for company.
Better damned well hope you feel like a gentleman, he informed himself testily. Unfortunately, he didn't think that piece of silent advice would do him much good.
