Three Weddings and a Kiss Part 2

"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 G.o.d, 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 d.a.m.ned problem. Ain't that a h.e.l.l of a note?"

Growing impatient with his nonsensical responses, Rachel steered him toward the steps. "We shall do quite well without him, I a.s.sure 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.

"d.a.m.n." 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 fl.u.s.tered 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, h.e.l.l."

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 a.s.sessment, 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 a.s.sistance, calling back over his shoulder, "You better get your little f.a.n.n.y 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 a.s.sailed 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 pa.s.s 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 b.u.mped 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 m.u.f.fled by his mouth. Grabbing his wrists, she arched away from him. Panic welled within her when she felt cool air touch her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. 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 s.n.a.t.c.hing 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 pa.s.sed out on schedule, and now it was anybody's guess when 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s-and failing-she fumbled with his gun belt. When the buckle finally came loose, one holster swung free and the b.u.t.t 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 bra.s.s b.u.t.tons 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s electrified with unfamiliar sensations where his masterful fingers toyed with her.

To her relief, he finally abandoned her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. 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 ma.s.sive 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed 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 gla.s.s 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, G.o.d, 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 anch.o.r.ed 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, G.o.d. 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 gla.s.s windows.

So close to her ear that his voice seemed a part of her thoughts, he whispered, "What the h.e.l.l 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 p.r.i.c.kly 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 h.e.l.l?" As he scrambled off her, he began b.u.t.toning 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 b.u.t.tons 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 asked plenty of questions and listened to the answers before he pa.s.sed judgement.

She reached up a hand. Instead of helping her up, though, her father took one look at her partially unb.u.t.toned shirtwaist and lunged at Matt Rafferty. "You low-down miserable son of a-!"

"Daddy!" Rachel shrieked. "What are you-oh, my G.o.d! 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 b.i.t.c.h! 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 gla.s.s.

"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 G.o.d, 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 a.s.sist 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."

His chest heaving with exertion, her father shrugged to straighten his shirt. "All right, so explain."

Before Rachel could speak, the church doors banged open again, indicating that yet another person had entered. Bodies shuffled. The next instant, Rachel heard a horrified gasp. There was no mistaking Molly's voice, even when the noises she made were inarticulate. Rachel's heart caught. She had meant to avenge her sister, not force her to endure yet more heartbreak.

"Rachel?" Molly whispered, clearly aghast. "Oh, lands, what've you gone and done?"

Rachel thought the answer to that was fairly obvious. She'd brought Matt Rafferty down a few notches, never mind the fact that she was going down with him.

"Oh, Molly." Rachel bit her lip, wishing with all her might that her sister hadn't come into the church.

Molly shook her head. "Oh, Rachel! You did this for me. I know you did!" She pressed her hands over her cheeks. "Oh, this is awful! You got the wrong one!"

Rachel couldn't imagine what Molly meant by that, and before she had time to think about it, her father interrupted with a sharp command to explain herself. As briefly as she could, Rachel recounted the events that had led to this moment, trying her best to leave nothing out, no matter how bad it made her look. The only concession she made to that was by neglecting to mention Dora Faye. Her father could a.s.sume whatever he wished, that she had bribed one of the saloon's regular patrons to drug Matt Rafferty's whiskey or that one of the upstairs girls had done it as a favor to Rachel. It really didn't matter as long as Dora Faye didn't get into trouble.

As Rachel wound down, she watched Big Jim closely, trying without success to read his expression. "So, you see, Daddy, it really wasn't his fault. I tricked Mr. Rafferty into coming here. I would have been long gone this morning if I hadn't fallen and hit my head."

Molly wailed forlornly, which prompted Big Jim to cast her a glare. "Enough out of you, young lady! If not for your theatrics, your sister wouldn't be in this pickle."

Rachel, always Molly's champion, leaped to her defense. "Now, Daddy, that isn't fair. Molly can't be blamed-"

"You be quiet!" Big Jim cried, cutting her off short. He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes closed for an instant. "All right, Rachel Marie, run all of that by me again. A little slower this time."

Resisting the urge to remind him he'd just ordered her to be quiet, Rachel cautiously asked, "Which part?"

"All of it!" her father ground out.

"All of it? Daddy, didn't you-"

Her father cut her off again, this time with a sharp jab of his finger. "All of it! And don't give me any of your sa.s.s, dammit. I'm in no mood for it!"

Rachel could see that he was perilously close to losing his temper. Forcing herself to speak more slowly this time, she once again explained how she'd come to be in the church this morning with Matt Rafferty. When she had given her father a full explanation for the second time and he still looked confused, she raised her hands in helpless bewilderment. "Which part aren't you clear on, Daddy? He callously broke Molly's heart, and I wanted to get even. With that end in mind, I had him drugged and lured him to the church, my plan being that he'd wake up this morning wearing no trousers in a packed church." When her father still looked befuddled, Rachel cried, "He humiliated my sister!" At that, Molly wailed again, more loudly this time. To be heard over the din, Rachel increased her own volume. "Is it so difficult to understand why I wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine? That's it, end of story."

"Rachel, if, as you say, all of this is about Molly and that silly crush she got on Matt Rafferty, then what the h.e.l.l"-he pointed a finger at the man on the floor-"is he doing here?"

"I told you, I-" An awful p.r.i.c.kly feeling crawled over Rachel's skin. She glanced uneasily toward Molly, who was still moaning and wailing, and then at the man sprawled near her feet. "Oh, G.o.d. This isn't Matt Rafferty?" It wasn't really a question. Rachel knew by Molly's behavior and the tone of her father's voice that she had guessed correctly. "Oh, dear," she whispered. "Oh, dear...oh, dear."

"Oh, dear?" her father repeated. "Is that all you can say for yourself, Rachel. Marie? Oh, dear?" With each word he spoke, his voice seemed to go up another octave. "You've shanghaied the wrong man, and all you can say is 'oh, dear'?"