The Lone Texan

CHAPTER 2

DRUMMOND ROAK DROPPED THE LUGGAGE AT THE desk and stormed out. Over the years he'd thought of a hundred things he'd say to Sage McMurray if he ever saw her again. He'd even thought of a few things he wouldn't mind doing.

That had all changed. Nothing today had gone like he'd planned. Much as he wanted to blame her, he knew the fault lay with him. He'd been so frightened when he saw her about to be hurt that he boiled over in anger, and she'd answered in kind.

Part of him wanted to grab her and say simply that it was about time she came back. He'd waited for her. Dear God, how he'd waited for her.

Time may have passed, but she was never far from his thoughts. He could have filled an entire book with the dreaming he'd had of her. Apparently, he was never even a footnote in her life.

Sage would be far too busy with the mutt to worry about her own comfort, so he'd ordered her a bath and tea sent to her room once she arrived. Evidently she was still picking up strays. Drum figured he was probably only one of hundreds.

Crossing the street again, he retrieved his horse and headed for the first bathhouse he could find. He hadn't expected to see her five minutes after he hit town. He'd thought he would at least have time to clean up and shave.

He swore under his breath. It had been years, and she still looked at him as if he were the scrawny, wild kid they'd tied in their barn when they caught him on their land. He'd proven his worth to her family a dozen times over the years, but that hadn't changed a thing in her eyes.

Drum tossed four bits on the table at the bathhouse door. "Hot water, lots of it, and whiskey.”

The old man behind the table nodded and pointed to the third door. Half door really. For a foot at both the top and bottom had been sawed off. The bottom was left open so the bathwater could run out and the top so that the owner could know what was going on in his establishment. The old guy looked like he allowed pretty much everything, but he'd want a price for anything more than a bath.

Drum slammed the flimsy door closed and dropped his saddlebags on the bench. He pulled out his fine tailored black shirt and pants and the leather vest he'd planned to be wearing when he saw Sage. He had a new hat with a silver band hanging on a peg at the Ranger station a few blocks away. She wouldn't have thought him a kid if she'd seen him dressed up.

He stripped off his filthy trail clothes and slid into a tin tub of lukewarm water. Part of him knew it didn't matter what he wore; she'd never think of him as her equal.

Before he could relax, the old man kicked the door back and added two steaming buckets of water to the tub, filling it completely. "You paid for soap and a towel. We'll settle up on the whiskey when you leave." He marked the level of the bottle before setting it next to the tub.

Drum leaned back and closed his eyes, letting the heat settle around him. He never should have come to Galveston. He should have stayed half a state away from Sage. He'd asked for trouble and, as usual, he'd found it. No matter what he did, she'd never see him as anything but worthless. He had more important things to do than come here to be insulted.

A smile lifted the corner of his mouth. No one else in Texas would have the nerve to insult him but Sage.

"You want me to wash your back?" A woman's voice jarred him from his thoughts. A round head covered in orange curls popped just above the door.

Normally, he would have said no, but today, he nodded once.

A stout woman in her thirties squeezed along the side of the tub. She had soap in one hand and a scrub brush in the other. She smiled and began her work. Within seconds, the front of her blouse was soaking wet, showing her wares, and her washing had become stroking.

When her hand dipped beneath the water, Drum pushed her away gently. "Thanks for the scrub, but I can do the rest."

She winked. "Are you sure? I don't mind. With a man built like you, it would be a pleasure."

He reached across to the coins lying next to his guns and tossed her one. "Thanks for the offer, but no thanks”

She looked disappointed.

Drum dropped his head into the water. When he raised it again, she was gone.

He grinned, wondering how much of her desire was spurred by the need of money. Leaning back in the water, he took a long drink of whiskey and tried to imagine Sage offering to wash his back.

Not likely.

He knew he was wild. How could he not be? He would have had better parenting if he'd been raised by wolves. His mother never even attempted to tell him which one of the bandits who lived in the hole of a town where he was born had been his father. She'd lifted her skirt so often for the price of a drink that most of the time she was so drunk she didn't remember having a child and never thought of caring for one. Other boys had mates; his first memories were of fighting the stray dogs in the camp for food.

Drum let the past he usually kept tucked away flow through his mind: the time he'd been five and had been beaten because he couldn't hold the target still so the drunks in the camp could fire, winter months when he'd hidden in the wood by the fire for warmth, cleaning up his mother when she threw up on herself.

He hadn't even cried when she'd died. He hadn't cared. He'd thought women were useless creatures. Or at least he had until he'd stumbled onto the McMurray Ranch.

Teagen McMurray had caught him trespassing and tied him up for the sheriff. But while he'd waited in the barn, he'd seen a way of life unlike anything he'd ever known. The McMurray men were strong and hard, but they protected and cherished their women, and the women, right down to the housekeeper, cared for others, even him.

Drum had been wiry thin and not fully grown, but they'd fed him and put blankets over him to keep him warm. Sage had doctored his wounds as if it mattered to her whether he lived or died. To this day, he could still remember the feel of her gentle fingers on his skin.

He took another drink, ignoring the burn of the liquor. He'd never seen anyone as beautiful as Sage McMurray. At fifteen he'd fallen hard for her in those few days, and no matter what she did or how much she despised him, nothing changed his mind. He'd asked her to wait for him to grow up so he could be her man, and she'd laughed at him.

He poured another drink, realizing she was probably still laughing at him.

Now she was back in Texas about the time he'd forgotten how many times she'd pushed even his friendship away. She'd married someone else, just like he'd feared she would. She'd never given a moment's thought to waiting for him.

Drum stared at the ceiling. Hell, she'd probably come back to Texas just to remind him how there would never be anything between them.

"Roak!" Like a cannon shot, a booming voice filled the outer room. "You in there?" The door flew open so hard it hit the wall, rattling the entire building.

"What did I get," Roak complained, "a swinging door on this bath?"

Captain Turner Harmon walked in as if he'd been invited. He was tall, with a barrel chest and a good salting of silver hair. His sun-wrinkled face made him seem ageless and indestructible.

The big man didn't bother to close the door. "I thought I'd find you here. I saw that devil of a black horse you ride. There's not another one like him in the state. I figure if Satan's tied up in front of this dump, you can't be far.”

Drum glared at the head of the Texas Rangers. "I'm not here. Every time I see you, I wrestle with Death and his brothers. Get out, Harmon. I'm taking a bath."

Apparently Captain Harmon was deaf, for he showed no sign of being offended. "You look clean enough. Get dressed, Roak. I need you and that lightning gun of yours”.

Roak lifted the whiskey bottle as casually as if they were simply having a drink. "And I've got plans in town tonight”

"Meet me out front. You've got five minutes.” the big man ordered. "Your plans can wait. We've got a real problem, son."

The half-empty whiskey bottle hit the door just as the captain stepped out.

Turner's laughter echoed through the bathhouse. "I'll take that as a 'Yes, sir.' "

"Take it any way you like," Roak shouted back.

"I'll pay for the bottle while you dress.” Turner's words lowered to be deadly serious. "Lives depend on you tonight, Drummond. You've no time to waste."

Drum stepped out of the tub and grabbed a towel. He wanted to go back to Sage all cleaned up, but she'd probably only insult him again. Maybe, after talking to her for ten minutes, it was already time to put some space between them. At this rate, they'd spend most of their lives avoiding one another.

He pulled clean trail clothes from his saddlebags and shoved his fine duds back inside. When it came right down to it, risking his life fighting beside the Rangers was probably safer than trying to get Sage to go to dinner with him. He might as well go fight and worry about her destroying him later. Maybe, if he got lucky, he'd manage to get himself killed before he caught up with her again.

Strapping on his holster, he shoved his dripping hair back and could think of nothing but her. He'd find Sage later, and he'd say a few of the things he'd thought about saying to her if he had to hold her at gunpoint to do it. Turner wouldn't have come after him if it wasn't something important. The captain was right: Sage could wait a few more days.

As he walked out of the bathhouse, he thought of her in black. Maybe he should give her time to mourn before he did what he'd thought of doing since the first time he'd seen her. He had told her that night in the barn that he would make her his woman someday, and the years hadn't changed his mind.

Now the biggest problem he faced seemed to be changing hers.