Three Weddings and a Kiss

  “Boy, howdy.” He snapped his fingers again. “On three measly drinks.”

  “You must have lost count and had more than that.”

  “Nope. Never have more’n that.”

  That came as a surprise. Unless the stories she’d heard were totally false, Matt Rafferty frequented the Golden Goose every Saturday night and drank all evening, playing cards and cavorting shamelessly. A man of moderation, he definitely wasn’t.

  “Oh, come on, you can tell me. You drink the well dry, right?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. I don’t cotton much to drinkin’.”

  “Since when?” she asked, curious in spite of herself.

  “Since forever. Outa respe—respect for my ma. She didn’t cotton to drunkenness, not in her boys. Claimed liquor ‘n’ Irish was a bad mix. I reckon she was right, ’cause whiskey killed my da.”

  “Then why drink at all?”

  He started to laugh. “Now there’s a plan.”

  She couldn’t see what he found so humorous. “I take it you’ve considered that.”

  He held up a finger. “But, as you can see, plans have a way of not always working out.” He reeled to a sudden stop, focused blearily on something ahead of them in the darkness, and said, “I can’t hold the damned things still long enough to get a good count, but they look like too many.”

  She realized they had reached the church and that he was referring to the front steps. Like him, she had to squint to see them, albeit for different reasons. “Too many for what?”

  “To climb.” As if he found that hysterically funny, he began to laugh again. Then, with no warning, he leaned down, thumping his forehead sharply against hers. “Jesus…” He exhaled in a great rush. “I don’t know, honey. I hate to disappoint a lady, but this is one time my good friend Henry may fail to rise to the occasion.”

  Thinking that he might have made arrangements to meet with his friend Henry after leaving the saloon, Rachel glanced worriedly over her shoulder. “Who’s that?”

  “Who’s what?”

  “Henry. Who is he?”

  “Henry is—” He broke off and started to laugh again. When he caught his breath, he said, “Dear God, you are sweet. Honest to goodness, pure as an angel, genuine sweet. It’s been so long, I’d forgotten girls like you exist.”

  Rachel couldn’t see what her disposition had to do with anything. “Thank you,” she said distractedly. “But you didn’t answer my question. Who is Henry? You didn’t mention that he was going to come.”

  His shoulders jerked with mirth again. “He isn’t. That the whole damned problem. Ain’t that a hell of a note?”

  Growing impatient with his nonsensical responses, Rachel steered him toward the steps. “We shall do quite well without him, I assure you.”

  “Lord, help me.”

  A chance for revenge beckoning sweetly, she endeavored to help him up the flight of steps. So what if Matt Rafferty seemed kind of nice? She knew he wasn’t, that he couldn’t possibly be. If he were, he wouldn’t have done something so reprehensible to her sister. Why should she show him any mercy when he’d shown Molly none?

  All of a sudden, Matt reeled backward. Taken off guard, Rachel tumbled with him. Luckily, they had scaled only a few levels. Dust mushrooming around them, they landed in an ungainly heap at the bottom of the steps, Rachel’s skirts and petticoats around her waist, Matt’s long legs crisscrossing hers.

  “Damn.” After taking one look at her, he sat up and brushed at her clothing. “I apologize. There seems to be a slight hitch in my get along. Are you all right?”

  With her skirts tossed up as they were, Rachel was too flustered to feel any pain, if indeed she was injured somewhere. He flashed one of those disarming grins at her. “Lucky for you, no one but me is here to see.”

  She shoved at his shoulder. “I’d prefer that no one see, you included.”

  “I’m gonna see more’n that before all is said and done.”

  He attempted to get up, but only made it as far as his knees before losing his balance again. He waved away another plume of dust. “Well, hell.”

  Rachel read the defeat in his expression and was determined to have none of it. She would get him inside that church, she vowed, even if she had to carry him every inch of the way. “You can do it,” she said in an encouraging voice.

  “It doesn’t look like it to me.”

  “Yes, well, you’re drunk and therefore no judge.” She pushed to her feet, grabbed him under the arms, and strained to lift him. “Get up, Mr. Rafferty.”

  “I’m tryin’.”

  “Try harder!” Her throat burning from the dirt particles she had inhaled, Rachel groaned with frustration when, after utilizing nearly all her strength, he still hadn’t gained his feet. “You have to make it. After getting you this far, I can’t quit now.”

  He jerked his arms from her grasp. “Stop strainin’ to lift me,” he ordered gruffly. “You’re gonna keep on until you hurt yourself.”

  After making that assessment, he just sat there. Rachel bent over him, hands braced on her knees. “Well, then? Are you going to try or not?”

  He smiled blearily up at her. “You know, darlin’, I don’t believe I’ve ever run across such an eager little swatch of calico.”

  Rachel felt like jerking him up by his ears. “Please, Mr. Rafferty, at least try.”

  “Mr. Rafferty? If we’re gonna get cozy”—he rose to his knees again—“then you oughta at least call me by my first name.” With a great heave, he stood and started up the steps again, this time with no assistance, calling back over his shoulder, “You better get your little fanny up here and make hay while the sun’s shinin’. I feel a little sick.”

  Rachel hurried after him. Once at the landing, she caught his arm so he wouldn’t fall again. Drawing him toward the doors, she said, “Just a few more steps.”

  “I hate to tell you this, but gettin’ there may prove to be the easy part.” He chuckled as though he’d said something hysterically funny.

  She wrenched one of the double doors open and entered the church rump first, his hands clasped in hers so she could tug him along after her. When the door swung shut, an intense blackness swooped over them. The smell of varnish and beeswax assailed her nostrils. Groping blindly, she located the last row of seats and maneuvered Matt around until she could prop him up against the back of the pew.

  Now all she had to do was wait for him to pass out.

  That thought no sooner crossed Rachel’s mind than his hands settled at her waist. With a gentle strength that, given his condition, surprised her, he drew her toward him. Even in the darkness, she had no difficulty determining that he’d parted his booted feet to pull her between his legs. No more than a black outline, he seemed to loom over her, a threatening wall of masculinity. The brim of his Stetson bumped her forehead. The next instant, his hot, oh-so-soft mouth had taken command of hers and his hands were busily unfastening her bodice.

  Rachel tried to scream, but her breath was stolen by his kisses and any sound she might have made was muffled by his mouth. Grabbing his wrists, she arched away from him. Panic welled within her when she felt cool air touch her breasts. Just that quickly, he had opened her bodice. Now only the thin cloth of her chemise shielded her nipples from his searching fingers. His hard palms cupped her fullness, the contact snatching the oxygen from her lungs in a whining rush. A heartbeat later, he firmly captured the peaks of her nipples between thumb and forefinger. Rivulets of fire ran through Rachel, warming her deep within, making her pulse escalate, kindling a need for something indefinable that soon grew to an ache.

  Dimly she realized she had completely lost control, that Matt had taken over. He knew his way around a woman’s body, that much was clear, and he was pummeling her senses with an onslaught of feelings she’d never dreamed existed.

  Struggling to clear her head, Rachel knew she had to get away from him. For some reason, he hadn’t passed out on schedule, and now it was anybody’s guess whe
n he might. Even so, she had no intention of abandoning her plan, not after having gone through so much to get him here.

  Before she left, she had to get his trousers off him.

  Trying not to feel what he was doing to her breasts—and failing—she fumbled with his gun belt. When the buckle finally came loose, one holster swung free and the butt of the revolver smacked the pew. She winced and bent at the knees to lower the weapons to the floor before turning her attention to his trouser belt. Luckily, it was easier to unfasten. She groped for the brass buttons of his fly. At her touch in so private a place, he stiffened and sucked in his breath.

  “Jesus…” he whispered raggedly. “Slow down, sweetheart; you’re gettin’ ahead of me here.”

  There was no way that Rachel intended to slow down. She jerked frenziedly at his trousers, her face beading with sweat, her heart thudding wildly, her breasts electrified with unfamiliar sensations where his masterful fingers toyed with her.

  To her relief, he finally abandoned her breasts. A heartbeat later, however, she felt his hands at the fastenings of her skirt. She jerked more urgently at his pants, determined to see this through. Once she got away from him, she could refasten her own lothing. He was so sozzled, he wouldn’t remember anything that was happening. It would be her guilty secret that he’d touched her so intimately.

  Suddenly he leaned forward to press his fore head against her shoulder. “Whoa,” he said in a slurred, rather faint voice. “I don’t feel so good.”

  Still intent on getting his trousers down, Rachel strained to bear his weight.

  “Oh, Christ,” he whispered raggedly.

  With that, he slumped toward her. Before Rachel could react, the breadth of his shoulders struck her squarely, the full force of his considerable weight knocking her backward. She screamed, the sound echoing in the darkness as she fell. Pain exploded at the base of her skull, and a brilliant white light flashed inside her head. Then, as though severed by a sharp knife, all sensation stopped and she spun away into nothingness.

  3

  Beeswax and varnish. Sun-dried cotton and leather. As she came awake, Rachel only vaguely registered the scents. When she started to stretch and yawn, however, she realized something was wrong. A massive weight was pressing upon her body. Not only was she unable to move, but she found it difficult to breathe.

  Confused and disoriented, she fluttered her lashes, becoming more aware with each passing second that her head ached. Not just a teeny-weeny ache, but a giant, skull-crushing pain that radiated up from the back of her neck.

  “For shame!” a woman whispered from somewhere close by. The unexpected sound made Rachel jerk. Before she could move or get her eyes open, another feminine voice said, “I’m telling you, Clara, the young people today have no respect.”

  Still trapped in a sleepy fog, Rachel frowned in total bewilderment. She didn’t recognize the voices as belonging to her sister Molly or to Mrs. Radcliff, the housekeeper. What on earth were strange people doing in her bedroom?

  She passed a hand over her face. A blur of multicolored light swam before her eyes. Without her spectacles, she was pretty much accustomed to everything beyond the end of her nose being indistinct, but for some reason, this morning it seemed worse than usual. Determined to clear away the cobwebs, she blinked, but her brain refused to cooperate. Objects around her went in and out of focus, rushing at her as they took on clarity, then receding a bit. Gleaming oak pews? People’s faces and stained glass windows? She wasn’t in her bedroom at home, that was a certainty.

  “This is an abomination,” some other woman cried.

  “A sin against all that is holy, that’s what it is!” another exclaimed.

  All that was holy? Rachel had already determined she must be in the church. The question was, what was she doing there? She squeezed her eyes closed again to keep from being sick. Her head…Oh, God, her head felt as if it had been split by a sledge. Had she been stricken with a sudden illness? Maybe she had fainted. That would explain the oppressive weight that seemed to be holding her down. Olivia Harrington, a local matron, claimed that a lady’s limbs felt heavy and useless immediately after she regained consciousness from a swoon.

  Forcing her eyes back open, Rachel tried to ignore the pain and concentrate on her surroundings. Yes, she was definitely inside the church. A vague sense of alarm coursed through her. She remembered something about the church—something important—but for the life of her, she couldn’t think what. She only knew she had an awful feeling that something was dreadfully wrong.

  The weight that held her anchored to the floor shifted suddenly. The movements was followed by a moan, unmistakably that of a man. The sound, deep and raspy, vibrated through her torso, transforming her sense of alarm into full-blown panic. Someone was lying on her? A male someone? Oh, God. Now that she was coming more awake, she could feel his hand, large and warm, cupped over her breast. It felt as if there was next to nothing by way of clothing between his fingers and her skin.

  Forgetting the pain in her head, Rachel gave a thin cry and pushed at the man’s shoulders. Despite all her shoving, he didn’t so much as budge. Tucking in her chin, she glimpsed wavy black hair and darkly bronzed skin. In a twinkling, her memory of the previous night came rushing back to her.

  Matt Rafferty! She threw a horrified look at the sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows.

  So close to her ear that his voice seemed a part of her thoughts, he whispered, “What the hell am I doing here?”

  That was Rachel’s question. “Off,” she croaked. “Get off me!”

  Not nearly as fast as she would have liked, he rose on one elbow. “What the—” When he glanced around them, his body snapped taut. “Oh, Christ!”

  She followed his gaze and saw that a crowd of people had entered the church. She had planned for this to happen—for him to awaken, surrounded by onlookers, and feel so humiliated he wanted to die. Only she wasn’t supposed to be here with him!

  So many people…Without her spectacles, she couldn’t see their faces very clearly, but even so, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they were all staring at her. A prickly sensation crawled over her skin. Like vultures waiting to feed on carrion, they pressed in around her, the different shades of their clothing a kaleidoscopic blur of color beneath the pale ovals of their faces. Filled with a mounting sense of dread, she touched a tremulous hand to her throat. Her bare throat?

  Startled, she looked down. To her dismay, she saw that the only thing covering her breasts was the thin cotton of her chemise. She gasped and brought up both hands to hide herself.

  When Matt noticed the state of her clothing, he glanced down at himself. Judging by the look that crossed his face when he saw that his gun belt was gone and that his trousers had been unfastened, he remembered little of what had happened.

  In a voice gone gravelly with sleep, he said, “What the hell?” As he scrambled off her, he began buttoning his blue jeans. “How did I—when did we—?”

  Before he could finish, one of the church doors swung open and struck the interior wall. The bang was almost deafening. “Where is she? Rachel Marie!” Clothing rustled and shoe leather creaked as the crowd moved aside to clear a path. “Get back, folks. Out of my way!”

  Even in a nearsighted blur, Rachel recognized the buckskin vest, white shirt, and shiny star that were her father’s trademarks. His voice, pitched to a loud roar, was unmistakable as well. It didn’t take a genius to determine that someone had gone to fetch him when she and Matt were found inside the church.

  She rushed to finish fastening the buttons of her bodice before he saw her. She was only about halfway done when Big Jim Constantine finally managed to fight his way to the front of the crowd. He took one look at her and said, “Oh, Rachel…”

  “It’s not the way it looks, Daddy. Truly! Just give me a chance to explain!”

  Rachel had every reason to believe her father would do exactly that. He was an easygoing and fair-minded man who always ask
ed plenty of questions and listened to the answers before he passed judgement.

  She reached up a hand. Instead of helping her up, though, her father took one look at her partially unbuttoned shirtwaist and lunged at Matt Rafferty. “You low-down miserable son of a—!”

  “Daddy!” Rachel shrieked. “What are you—oh, my God! Stop it!”

  Rachel may as well have saved her breath, for her father seemed not to hear her. A tall individual of considerable breadth and girth, he landed on the younger man like a diver doing a belly flop. Matt, evidently still feeling the effects of the valerian, fell back under the onslaught, his breath rushing from his lungs in a loud whoosh. Before he could even start to defend himself, Big Jim wrapped both hands around his throat.

  “You miserable little worm! You conscienceless son of a bitch! I’ll kill you for this. I’ll kill you with my bare hands!”

  From that point on, everything took on a nightmarish quality for Rachel. She had the oddest feeling she was hovering somewhere above herself, that she watched everything through a plate of breath-fogged glass.

  “Daddy, stop this!” She clung futilely to her father’s arm. “You have to stop this. He’s been drugged and can’t defend himself. Oh, dear God, you’ll kill him!”

  Her father tried to shake her off. “Let go, girl. Dammit, let go!”

  Nothing could have induced Rachel to do that. This was her fault. All her fault. Nearsighted though she was, she could tell Matt’s face was turning crimson. As bitter as her feelings toward him had been last night, she didn’t want him dead.

  “Daddy, for heaven’s sake! Look what you’re doing!”

  Rachel nearly wept with relief when three men rushed forward to assist her. After several attempts, the trio managed to drag Big Jim off. Judging by the way Matt choked and gasped for air afterward, he hadn’t been released a second too soon.

  The instant the three men turned her father loose, Rachel flung herself against him. “Daddy, you have to listen to me. This isn’t his fault. I swear it. Please, you have to give me a chance to explain.”