Dance Hall Road Read online

  As she’d stitched, she reasoned her nightmares were becoming fewer and farther in between. In her head, her fears were still there, Kurt was still there, the Laski Brothers were still there threatening, cruel and vicious. But she felt warm all over now, with her moccasins, and now the long johns, and she told herself she was safe—well taken care of. Really, she had nothing to complain about.

  Mr. Hoyt would not hurt her or Gabriel, he wouldn’t. He wasn’t Kurt… nothing like Kurt.

  Bent over to remove her custard pies from the oven, Petra felt the icy fingers of winter blow up her skirt and a chill wind play with the hair by her ear. She looked toward the doorway, expecting to see Mr. Hoyt.

  A stranger loomed on the threshold, tall and broad, his face pale, in shadow. He stood stock-still, a white, billowing cloud of hellishly cold snow swirling around him. Set beneath a shelf of thick, rusty-colored brows a pair of hungry, predatory silver eyes glistened, nearly opaque in the bright, snow-filtered light, coldly staring at her, assessing every inch of her.

  He stood there, grinning at her, holding the bronze-colored, smoked goose dangling from a string at his side.

  Mr. Hoyt had gone out to the smokehouse to bring her back a goose. Mr. Hoyt? He’d been gone too long.

  At lightning speed, a number of grisly scenes flashed through her mind. First and foremost came the vision of Mr. Hoyt’s bloody corpse, cold and lifeless, lying out in the barnyard.

  The stranger’s unblinking gaze stopped her heart, robbed her of her breath. The pie she had in her hands slipped from her now cold and trembling fingers. The hot custard splattered on her moccasins. Without thinking, she backed herself against the wall. Her fingers searched for the cleaver on the panty cupboard shelf at her side.

  The devil had found her. They’d found her. This was the assassin Kurt and Beau had sent out to track her down and silence her.

  Her eyes shifted to the cradle across the room. Gabriel. She prayed he wouldn’t cry. She prayed the devil wouldn’t see him. She prayed Mr. Hoyt wasn’t dead. If she died, she prayed Mr. Hoyt would protect Gabriel.

  “What have you done with Mr. Hoyt? That’s our goose. Who are you? What do you want?”

  Questions…questions she couldn’t hear, nor could she hear the answers if the devil gave them. He took a step toward her. She raised the clever. “I’ll use this!”

  Her throat, it felt raw, torn—she hoped she’d screamed. She hoped Mr. Hoyt would hear. Gasping for air, she choked, saliva seeping out of the corner of her mouth as tears blurred her vision.

  “Get out! Get out of this house.

  “Mr. Hoyt! Mr. Hoyt!”

  Her voice. She needed her voice. Sucking in a gulp of freezing air that moved over her tongue and dried her teeth, her cry for help clawed at her tonsils. Heart pounding, throbbing in her neck just below her chin, Petra raised the cleaver above her head in a rush of fear-driven courage. “I’ll use this. I will. I’ll plant this right between your eyes.”

  The devil raised his hands above his head, taking the goose with them. Grinning, shaking his head, his perfect white teeth mocked her behind his reddish-brown mustache. The grin reached his satanic eyes, light flashing in his predatory orbs like ice crystals in the sun. The man sidestepped toward Gabriel and the cradle.

  Petra lunged toward him. “Get away, get away from him. Do what you want with me. Don’t you dare touch my son!”

  The devil laughed. She could see his lips moving, and his teeth. He still had his hands up, then he pointed to the slate and chalk on the bookshelf. Petra didn’t know what for, and she didn’t care. One way or the other, she had to take him out, and quickly, before he could harm her or Gabriel. Mr. Hoyt couldn’t save her, not this time.

  »»•««

  Shit. Damn if she wasn’t about to split him in two like halving an elk carcass.

  Buck knew he should be scared, but the situation thumped his funny bone. Damn, what a spitfire. Too bad about the pie, though. He’d been looking forward to a good custard pie. He’d tried making custard pies, but they always turned out sloppy and weepy.

  He shouldn’t be laughing; plainly his grin had her petrified. And the thought tickled him even more.

  Petra-fied, yep she intended to Petra-fry him all right, split him right down the middle, then toss his carcass on the fire if he didn’t do something quick.

  Here he’d been worried about making himself too pretty—irresistible. Instead, all he’d managed to do is make himself appear more forbidding.

  Well, you just never knew with women. They were a lot like horses and cats—they spooked easily. Most of them didn’t take to change unless it was their idea. He probably should’ve mentioned he’d been thinking about getting rid of his whiskers.

  Tucking in his chin, setting his jaw, he snatched the idea back. No. Hell, no. I don’t have to get Petra Yurvasi’s okay on anything. I’m still my own man. I can shave, not shave, bathe, or not bathe, even fart if I want to, which I have done. She can’t hear anything anyway.

  When he handed the goose off to her to free his hands to write on the slate, he didn’t give it a second thought. But it pleased him nonetheless that his action threw her off guard. She flinched and took a step back, blinking with surprise when she found herself holding the bird.

  Taking advantage of Petra’s momentary distraction, he reached past her to retrieve the slate and chalk. When he turned back to her, he ducked to the side; she looked ready to take a swing at him with the bird.

  Shaved, Petra. Erase.

  It’s me. Erase.

  Buck. Erase.

  Each time he wrote a word, he held up the slate in front of his face for her to see. Peeking over the edge of the slate, he saw her staring at the words, blinking. He pulled back and repeated the process.

  Eyes wide, she stammered, no doubt unaware she’d spoken aloud, “Mr. Hoyt?” With a shake of her head, she puffed out her breath, then licked her lovely lips.

  “Mr. Hoyt, what have you done to yourself?”

  Yep, he suspected this to be one of those funny instances when Petra didn’t know she’d made any sounds at all. The hand holding the cleaver dropped to her side, while the hand holding the goose came up within inches of his chin, hovered, then dropped.

  Buck slowly, cautiously, reached for the cleaver, which Petra allowed him to take without resistance, then he relieved her of the goose and her shoulders sagged. He took the bird to the pantry cupboard, having to step around the custard pie on the floor.

  “I found my face in the barn,” he said aloud, then cursed and wrote it out on the slate, turning to show it to her.

  She followed him, her mouth open, studying him. She had him feeling like some kind of freakish oddity right out of the circus.

  “You look so different. Dangerous…but handsome,” she whispered the thought aloud, coming up to him, touching him, her trembling fingers gently finding the cleft in his chin.

  Deliberately she said, “It’s going to take some getting used to.” Quickly, she pulled her hand behind her back, appearing startled to have found actual flesh and blood.

  Then she added, and again he knew the words she spoke were her private thoughts. “You’re not old.”

  Blushing, she put her fingers to her lips. “You look younger without your beard.” Her gaze traced every detail of his face.

  Don’t feel young, he wrote, uneasy with her scrutiny.

  Going to take time for me, too. Erase.

  I frightened you. Sorry. Erase.

  Sorry about the pie.

  “Pie?” She pivoted around, her eyes drawn to the mess of custard on the wooden floor. Crying in dismay, her hands going to her cheeks, Petra kneeled down and started to scoop the mess into the pie tin with her fingers.

  Gabriel had started fussing about the time Petra had screamed her threat to use the cleaver on him. Now the kid lay yelling, fighting mad. Buck went over to the cradle and picked him up, taking note he had a soggy bottom.

  Petra had her mind on her splatt
ered pie, but Buck tapped her on the shoulder, thinking he’d rather clean up the mess on the floor than take on a pissed nappy.

  Petra’s response to his touch turned his blood to ice. In utter dismay, he watched her curl up into a ball on the floor like a whipped dog, her arms going over her head, her fingers covered in custard, digging into her scalp.

  »»•««

  Petra waited, braced for the sharp boot to her backside. The agony of not knowing where Kurt would kick her had Petra holding her breath, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.

  When a big hand came down and gently folded around her right wrist, Petra instinctively pulled in tighter. Then she sensed warmth, like soft fabric against her elbow. She gasped when she experienced a little slap on the arm from a small little fist. Taking a chance, she peeked between her arms. Gabriel, his face red with rage, his arms flailing, legs kicking, lay beside her. Mr. Hoyt, his piercing eyes full of unspoken pity, kneeled beside her, leaned over her to put a hand on her shoulder.

  Unable to withstand his penetrating gaze, she brought her arms down and folded them around her son. She held on to him, eyes closed, until her shame abated.

  »»•««

  Feeling sick inside, Buck made his way back to the barn, his stomach churning. Damn, she’d actually thought he would kick her. But why?

  Laski.

  The son-of-a-bitch, he’d taught her to cower like that. Buck couldn’t imagine the hell that animal had put her through. He would never understand why a man would hit a woman, or a kid, or an animal. Sure, a man might bellow and bluster, but punch or kick? No.

  After stomping around in the barn for a while, cursing Kurt Laski, thinking up ways to torture the slimy cull, Buck finally settled on eviscerating the bastard. He’d pull the man’s guts out very slowly, inch by inch, tying them in knots until he begged to die. With the decision made, Buck made his way back into the house.

  He found the floor in his room spotless, his supper laid out on the table. Without meeting his eyes, Petra came and sat down and, with trembling fingers, picked at the food on her plate.

  Buck made himself take a bite of her cinnamon, honey and butter-drenched squash, and couldn’t help himself, the flavor filled his senses—he closed his eyes to savor it. He hadn’t thought he would be able to swallow, but how could he not enjoy Petra’s cooking, all the flavors blended to perfection.

  They ate their meal in silence. Petra finally relaxed enough to put away a good portion of the meal. With his stomach full, feeling replete, he sat in his rocking chair while Petra finished cleaning up. He tapped Gabriel’s cradle with his toe to keep it in motion, and Gabriel, soothed by the motion, nodded off to sleep.

  Watching Petra move around his room, Buck found it a mystery why this particular woman fascinated him so—why he’d allowed her in, and no other.

  He looked down to the journal in his lap. He’d made a pretense of working on a story he had in mind for a dime novel, but he hadn’t said anything to Petra about his secret ambitions. He couldn’t discuss things with Petra when she couldn’t hear.

  He watched her wipe down the stove, then dry the roaster pan. Finally she spoke. “You’re staring at me,” she accused with a defiant lift of her chin. Pulling her shoulders back, she folded the dishtowel and slapped it down on the pantry shelf.

  Guilty as charged, he shrugged, then scribbled his defense on his journal paper and held it up to show her. She crossed the room, standing before him, leaning in a little to read it, Pretty woman. I’m a man. Men stare at pretty women.

  She straightened, and started to undo the coil of glossy, dark hair at the nape of her neck, then shook it out. Buck sat transfixed. Her hair tumbled down over her shoulders, down to her waist in luxuriant waves. One heavy coil snaked its way down into her cleavage where her shirt, unbuttoned, laid open at her throat.

  Oh, how he wanted to follow her coil of hair with his fingers, his lips—pull her down onto his lap and explore every inch of her. He swallowed hard. She was saying something. He made himself concentrate on her words, not on her…God-a-mighty…hair and the white flesh just there at the base of her throat.

  “I used to think myself pretty. My father used to call me his beautiful Pet.”

  She sounded bitter and sad. Buck wrote on the slate and held it up, He wasn’t wrong.

  Shaking her head, Petra gave him an indulgent little smile and sat down on the bed, folding her legs Indian style.

  Buck realized right then she had started to trust him. The idea scared the hell out of him because he knew she shouldn’t…really she shouldn’t. He had a strong impulse to crawl up on the bed next to her and take her down. Curling his toes inside his boots, his toenails gouging into the leather insoles he anchored himself to the floor.

  Hurriedly, he gave his mind somewhere to go, anywhere but on the bed. So, he wrote down the first question that came to him, You said you were headed to Missoula. What’s there for you?

  She combed her hair with her fingers, and he shifted in his chair to accommodate the growing bulge in his pants.

  “My aunt Jean, my mother’s sister. My mother and father are both gone.”

  Did you tell your aunt you were expecting?

  With her attention on the words he’d written on the paper, Petra shook her head.

  Did she know where you were?

  That brought her head up. Eyes narrowed, she glared at him. Fascinated, he saw her lovely eyes had turned a bottomless twilight blue. “Why? Why are you asking these questions?”

  Buck’s desire shriveled in his trousers, but she had fanned his curiosity to a higher degree and he wrote, a young woman on her own…dangerous. Thought someone might be worried about you. This Aunt Jean might want to know what’s happened to you…know if you’re all right.

  With a shake of her head, Petra quickly responded, “I suppose she thinks I’m married to Kurt. I never thought I’d be on my own. I’ve known the Laski brothers practically my whole life. I followed them from Missoula to Baker City. I assumed they’d protect me.”

  Buck took note that she delivered this confession with a defiant lift of her chin.

  “Before I left Missoula, I told my aunt that Kurt promised me a wedding.”

  Proud of himself for getting good at writing sideways, he wrote, She tried to discourage you from leaving, I’ll bet.

  Unfolding her legs, Petra moved to the edge of the bed, her arms straight at her side, and pressed her palms down into the mattress. Her eyes glittered with emotion, it could be pride or it could be defiance, but either way, he didn’t think she would give in to tears, no matter how deep they stacked up behind those lovely orbs. He hadn’t meant to push, but now he had, he couldn’t let up.

  Tilting her head to one side, she stretched her neck first one way then the other. Taking a deep breath, she sniffed, then looked him in the eye. “My aunt thought Kurt should bring me home to Missoula. She’s an old woman, unable to travel, but she wanted to be at my wedding. I don’t think she’ll be expecting to hear from me.”

  Digesting what she’d said, and what she hadn’t said, Buck wrote, You’re not telling me the whole truth, but that’s okay. I think I get the picture. You didn’t leave on the best of terms with your aunt.

  Cheeks flushed, blue eyes snapping with defensive sparks, her words shot out of her mouth like the snarl of a cornered she-wolf, “You don’t know anything. The truth, Mr. Hoyt, I’ve always been headstrong. Ever since I was a little girl. The first time I saw Kurt Laski I was eleven and he was fourteen. My head has always been full of silly romantic notions about Kurt Laski. My father spoiled me rotten. Aunt Jean tried to…she tried to reason with me.”

  Her voice cracked. He watched her wince, swallow hard, her eyes squeezing shut. Her complexion had gone very pale, her brows puckering over her delicate nose and her lips pressed tightly together. She had to be in a lot of pain, but she shook it off and let her thoughts fly in his face. “My aunt tried to get me to see sense. She really tried, but I wouldn’t listen. I thoug
ht her ideas and ways of life crude and…and barbaric. My father owns…”

  She stopped herself, gulped down a sob, and then made a correction, “owned…a coal mine in Missoula. He’s dead…gone, killed in a mining accident. The mineworkers own it now. I receive a monthly stipend, a dividend from the profits.

  “My father gave me everything I wanted. What he didn’t give me, I found a way to buy for myself. I tried to buy Kurt with my money and property. When it didn’t work, I tried to buy his heart with my…my body, and for that I got punched and kicked.”

  Her voice dropped. Her head fell forward and her eyes closed. She cleared her throat a couple of times, and shivered. “The truth, I don’t know if I could face my aunt, even if I should somehow manage to make it back to Missoula. I’ve shamed her and my mother’s people.”

  She brought her head up, her gaze going to Gabriel in his cradle. “I’ve been so incredibly stupid.”

  Buck watched her pull in her breath, hold it, then emit a small mew of distress. The sound of it broke his heart, but he didn’t dare touch her for fear of rejection.

  He knew himself for a coward.

  Gabriel started to squirm and grunt. He stretched, squeezing his eyes shut before he opened his mouth to let forth a squall for attention.

  Petra stooped to pick him up. Her eyes downcast, she mumbled and Buck knew she hadn’t spoken to him, she’d spoken to herself. “I’m not beautiful. I’ve never been beautiful.”

  Her eyes meeting his gaze, she pulled herself up, drawing her shoulders back and placing the baby over one shoulder. “Everything, my whole life, has been one big lie.” Rocking from side to side, she said, “Everything I ever thought I needed or wanted has turned to vapor. After all this time, I finally realize appearances don’t matter, what truly matters, runs much deeper. My father gave me things, extravagant things, not because he loved me and thought me beautiful, but to show off his wealth and power. To him I was a product, not a person.”

  She coughed, shook her head, then licked her lips, and Buck could tell it hurt for her to speak. He could see the pain in her eyes; so much talking had cost her.