Arness obviously didn’t recognize her, either. He kept pounding his fist on the polished mahogany surface and yelling for whiskey.
Tom leaned over the bar and said something to him.
“Singer?” Arness shouted. He swiveled around to peer at Clarissa. “A female singer? Why, hell an’ damn, that’s one helluva pretty—”
Gray’s fist stopped the word. It also stopped the song, and an uneasy silence descended.
“Whadja hit me for, ya skunk?” Arness mumbled from the floor where he lay.
“No reason,” Gray said quietly. “Just practicin’. Now, either shut up or get out.”
Arness lurched toward Clarissa. “Ain’t leavin’ without kissin’ that woman! C’mere, honey.”
Gray shot a look at her stricken face and gave her a quick, decisive shake of his head. Her eyes widened. Who? she mouthed at him.
Arness, he silently mouthed back.
She went whiter than a pail of milk.
Arness made a grab for her. “Now, come on, honey, be nice. You come on over here and I’ll show you a real good time.”
Right then Gray knew he had to get her out of there. “Tom,” he muttered to the barman. “Keep Arness busy.”
Tom rose to the occasion by knocking over a bottle of whiskey, spilling it all across Arness’s filthy trousers. While Arness mopped at the damage, Gray strode to Clarissa and bent to speak in her ear.
“Don’t scream. I’m getting’ you out of here.” He leaned toward the piano player.
“Cover for us, Whitt. Play something loud.”
Gray grabbed her around the waist. “Come on.” He hustled her into the back room, out the rear door and into the dark alley outside.
He ushered her into the hotel. “Which room?”
She turned fear-dilated eyes on him. “N-number six.”
He reached over the counter and snagged the key off its hook.
“Emily will be asleep,” she protested.
“Good.” He unlocked the door, pushed her inside and marched in behind her.
“Mama!” Emily sat up in the big double bed, rubbing her eyes. “And Mister Cowboy! It is tomorrow already?”
“No, darling. It’s still nighttime.” Clarissa sank down on the bed and wrapped her arms around her daughter.
Gray laid his hand on her shoulder and she looked up at him. Her eyes looked kinda funny. Dazed-like. “He doesn’t know what you look like,” he said in a low voice. “But Tom’ll tell him your name and that’ll let the cat out of the bag for sure.”
She nodded.
“I’m going over to the livery to get another horse.”
She blinked. “Why?”
“I’m takin’ you and Emily out to my ranch.”
“But—”
“Pack up,” he ordered. “And bolt the door while I’m gone.”
In spite of the voluminous puffy green taffeta skirt, Clarissa managed to mount the animal Gray held for her and watched while he lifted Emily into his saddle, settled her on his lap and folded her tiny fingers around the saddle horn.
“Hang on real tight, Emily.”
“Okay.” She sent a happy grin up at him, and Clarissa felt a stab of unease. Children were so trusting! And so was she, she reflected. Imagine, letting a man she had met only once kidnap her and take her home with him!
Gray grabbed the reins of her sorrel and kicked his black gelding into a canter. When they reached the edge of town, he moved into a gallop, but he still kept hold of Clarissa’s reins. She couldn’t bring herself to admit she had been on a horse only once in her life, and that was on her tenth birthday.
In the dark everything looked oppressive—thick stands of towering trees, tangled brush, shadows. There was a sound of rushing water. And no light anywhere. She was used to a measured out grid of orderly streets, gaslights, houses with candles in the windows. Her skin prickled. It was like riding into hell. If she allowed herself to feel anything, it would be a wash of pure terror.
After what seemed like hours, they moved through a wide swinging gate, then trotted up a long lane. Gray still held on to her reins with one hand and kept the other firmly planted around Emily’s middle.
Clarissa was exhausted, so winded she could scarcely breathe and her backside was numb. Inside she was still shaking, but knew she was safe now, swept away from a terrible fate. Caleb Arness was a drunkard. And a liar. She was well rid of the man, but her narrow escape had left her unnerved.
But what now? Why, oh why, had she ever left Boston? She didn’t know anything about the West. She didn’t even know where she was.
Good heavens, Clarissa, pull yourself together. You must be strong for Emily. You have to protect your daughter.
They came up on a gentle rise and up ahead a light winked in the blackness. Oh, thank God, civilization! How long had she been joggled along on the animal beneath her, one hour? Two? It felt like ten years.
Mr. Harris—well, she guessed she should call him Gray, since he had rescued her and Emily from that odious man Caleb Arness. She would be grateful to Graydon Harris to her dying day. How could Caleb have lied to her like that, telling her he was an upstanding citizen of Smoke River, a friend of the sheriff and all the ranchers within fifty miles? A family man who would welcome her and her daughter into his Christian home? The man was nothing but a slovenly drunkard.
The horses slowed to a walk, and now she saw there were two lights—one inside a big white house with a wide verandah across the front and the other swinging from a shadowy man’s hand.
“Ramon,” Gray called out. “Get Maria!”
The swinging lamp disappeared into a small, dark cabin a few yards to one side of the big house, and in the next minute Gray dismounted, pried Emily’s fingers off the saddle horn and lifted her down onto the ground. Then he came toward Clarissa’s sorrel.
“Miss Seaforth, I’ll help you dismount.”
“Where are we?”
“My ranch, the Bar H.” He reached up, circled his hands around her waist and lifted her out of the saddle. The instant her feet touched the solid earth her legs collapsed under her and she cried out. Gray caught her under the arms and leaned her up against the horse.
Emily skipped to her side. “Mama, how come you can’t walk?”
“I can walk perfectly well,” she said as steadily as she could manage. “In...a minute.”
“Take your time,” Gray murmured. “You don’t have to prove it.”
It took a full ten minutes before she trusted her limbs to keep her upright, and even then Gray had to half carry her up the porch steps.
“She is ill?” the man called Ramon asked.
“Nah. Just tuckered.”
“Maria...she is inside.”
Seven steps later Clarissa stood in the doorway of the house and met the startled glance of a short, plump Mexican woman.
“Ay de mi, Señor Gray, what have you done?”
“Nothing. Maria, this is Clarissa Seaforth, and—” he