But then he spoke her name on a ragged breath, and something inside her that had been fettered for a long time broke free and took flight.

He sensed it immediately and deepened the kiss with hunger and heat, a low growl, his tongue searching. His arm tightened around her waist until their bodies met where his was straining and hers was aching.

He nudged the dip between her thighs, and stayed, and pressed, and still it wasn’t close enough. She placed her hands on his chest, clutched handfuls of his jacket…

And then gave a cry of sudden pain.

He released her immediately and backed away. “God, Laurel. What’s the matter?”

She looked down at her right hand where a drop of blood beaded up out of her palm. “I don’t know.” Mystified, she looked up at him. “Something in your pocket?” She reached into his left breast pocket and came up with a star-shaped badge.

She gaped at it, then dropped it as though the pin had pricked her again. The badge clinked against the hardwood floor. She looked up into his face, her breath rushing in and out. “You’re a deputy sheriff?”

“No. Not officially.”

She backed away from him, drawing her housecoat more tightly around her. “Were you in on that raid?”

“Not by choice.”

“Either you were or you weren’t,” she said, raising her voice. “If there hadn’t been a raid, Irv wouldn’t have gotten shot.”

“If he hadn’t been in Lefty’s back room, he wouldn’t have gotten shot.”

“You’re blaming him?”

“No. All I’m saying is that he was at the wrong place at the wrong time, and so was I.”

“Oh, were you? If Irv hadn’t been shot, would you have arrested him?”

“Wasn’t up to me. I didn’t arrest anybody. I hauled your father-in-law out of there, carried him to his truck, and drove him home.”

“For which I’ve thanked you. Now I want you to leave.”

“It wasn’t my doing, Laurel.”

“Don’t use my name!”

“I got railroaded into taking part, Laurel. Sheriff Amos—”

“I don’t care.”

“Sounds like you do. Sounds like you care one hell of a lot.”

“Will you just go?”

“What difference does it make to you if I was official or not?”

“None. Absolutely none. You…your…nothing you do is any of my business. Or didn’t I make that clear to you not three minutes ago?”

He leaned forward and said with emphasis, “It was an eventful three minutes.”

True. With desire spreading through her like warm syrup, all sorts of events had taken place in intimate places. To cover her mortification, she went on the offensive. “Why did you keep that badge concealed? It makes me wonder what else you’re hiding.”

“Yeah? Then that makes two of us. Because I don’t think it was the kiss that has got you coming apart.”

Anger and fear were potent emotions. In the throes of either, one could speak ill-advisedly. In the grips of both, one would be foolish to say anything at all. She’d gone far beyond that, but if she didn’t stop now, she could dig herself in much deeper.

Drawing herself up to her full height, she said, “You prevented Irv’s condition from getting much worse. Possibly you even saved his life. Thank you. But I want you to leave now and, from now on, stay away from us. Away from me.”

He remained as he was just looking at her, then bent over and scooped the badge up off the floor. “Thanks for the pie.” He turned and disappeared around the corner into the kitchen. The back door was soundly pulled shut.

Laurel walked backward over to the table, groping blindly for her chair, and when she located it, landed hard in the seat. She squeezed her eyes shut and covered her mouth with her hand. Her lips were still damp from his kiss. She could taste him. Her breasts felt heavy, full, tingly. She didn’t know whether to scream with fury, wring her hands with anxiety, or weep because she could never be near him again.

“Miss Laurel?”

She started. Corrine was standing only a few feet away, looking at her with uncertainty. “Did he leave me here?”

Laurel laid her forehead on the table and hiccupped a sob tinged with hysteria. “So it would seem.”

Thirty-One

“…and like a damn fool, I believed every word out of his lyin’ mouth and ran off with him.” Corrine finished a slice of bacon and licked the grease off her fingers. “It was romantic and excitin’ and all. I kept tellin’ myself that Mama and Daddy wouldn’t miss me, that they’d be glad to have one less mouth to feed. There’s eleven of us kids. I’m second oldest.

“Anyhow, on the night Jack and me had set, I snuck out of the house and walked to the crossroads where he was waitin’. We hit the open road, laughin’ and carryin’ on, waitin’ to see where destiny would take us. It took us to Lefty’s. You gonna finish that?”

The sudden question, asked out of context, roused Laurel from her woolgathering. “Pardon?”

“You gonna eat what’s left of your breakfast?”

“Oh. No. Help yourself.” She pushed her plate across the table. Corrine broke a biscuit in half, spooned jam onto it, and popped it into her mouth. At least that silenced her for several seconds.

Laurel didn’t know where the girl found the energy or wherewithal to chatter. Both of them had been up for most of the night, taking turns sitting with Irv, waiting and watching to see if he would take a bad turn. He was in obvious pain, but he’d showed no signs of worsening. Except for some spotting on his bandage, there’d been no further bleeding, no fever.

At sunup, Laurel had gone to her room to wash and dress for the day. She’d undone her braid and brushed her hair, then plaited it again and wound it into a bun on her nape. As though her loose braid were responsible for her lapse in good judgment last night, this morning she had mercilessly jabbed the hairpins in to secure it.

What other excuse did she have for allowing Mr. Hutton to kiss her like that? The crisis with Irv had left her emotionally vulnerable, yes. But she’d always disparaged members of her sex who blamed stupid behavior on frayed emotions.

When she had returned downstairs, Corrine was in the kitchen frying bacon. Biscuits were baking. Laurel had been embarrassed by the girl’s industry, because she felt completely wrung out.