“As for Sam, I forgave him a long time ago. Frankly, coming to Denver was the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I made friends at a boardinghouse called Swan’s Nest. I have supper there every Sunday. That’s where I’m going next.”
J.T. realized she hadn’t answered his first question. “Why not perform here in Denver?”
“Those last days in Abilene were awful,” she said mildly. “The theater world is small. If I act here in Denver, the talk will start again. I can’t stand the thought.”
He’d have chosen a whipping over the guilt he felt for leaving her. Not once had he considered Mary’s reputation when he’d set out to claim her. When she straightened her fork for the second time, he reached across the table and gripped her hand. His gaze dropped to their knuckles—hers red and rough, his scarred from brawling—and he felt the rightness of what he wanted to say. “I’m sorry I left. I should have—”
“Don’t waste your breath.”
When she tried to take back her hand, he held it tighter. “Leaving you was the biggest mistake of my life.”
“I doubt that,” she said, tugging again.
He had some convincing to do, and he had to do it with tenderness, not fighting. He let her go. “I don’t expect you to believe me. Not yet. But I’ve missed you. That’s why I’m here. Remember the dream we had about opening a saloon? Our own place in California?”
She bit her lip, but her eyes said she remembered.
“Come with me, Fancy Girl,” he said in a hush. “We can pick up where we left off.”
She didn’t say yes to him, but neither did she slap his face. With his chest tight and his heart pounding, J.T. waited for her answer.
Chapter Three
Mary had pulled out of J.T.’s grasp, but the warmth of his touch lingered. Two years ago she’d yearned for what he’d just offered. That dream had shattered the night he’d left, and so had her hopes for marriage and a family of her own. Memories kicked in the place where the baby had nestled for three short months.
She couldn’t let J.T. see the memory in her eyes, so she blinked hurriedly. “The answer is no.”
“Why not?”
Because you hurt me, and I’ll never trust a man again. Because you broke my heart and left me with child. “I’m different now,” she said simply.
“So am I.”
She doubted it. He hadn’t mentioned marriage and he wouldn’t. A man like J.T. wasn’t the marrying kind. She’d known that all along, but she’d foolishly believed she could change his mind. She spoke with deliberate calm. “What we had in Abilene is gone. All of it.”
Even the baby.
Memories assailed her…the blood, the pain. The guilt had been worst of all. She hadn’t wanted the baby until she’d lost it. That morning she’d woken up with cramps. Instead of staying in bed, she’d gone to the theater intending to perform as usual. She’d miscarried just minutes before she was supposed to take the stage, and the gossip had started instantly. Tears pressed into her eyes. If J.T. saw them, he’d know there was more to the incident with Sam O’Day.
Mumbling about the food, she hurried to the kitchen. Before she reached the door, he clasped her arms from behind. In Kansas he would have kissed her neck. She would have turned and gone into his arms. Today she felt trapped.
His voice came over her shoulder. “Come with me, Mary. It’ll be good this time.”
It had been good last time, but not good enough. Giving herself to this man had caused her nothing but grief. She’d lost her heart, her reputation and her career. She’d wept alone over their lost child, and that had hurt most of all.
As he tightened his grip, the smell of his unwashed skin reached her nose. She broke loose and faced him. “Leave me alone!”
He released her, but his eyes held her more tightly than his hands. “I need you, Mary.”
“What you need is a bath!”
“I need more that,” he murmured. “I need you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Mary, I—”
“Don’t talk to me!” Turning, she clamped her hands over her mouth. The secret burned like fire in her belly. She wanted to punish him for what he’d done, but she couldn’t. Not only did she have to keep the facts to herself, but she knew what it meant to need forgiveness. As much as she wanted to blame J.T. for wooing her into his bed, she’d gone willingly, even eagerly. God had forgiven her—she knew that. She thought she’d forgiven J.T., but the memories left no room for mercy. She couldn’t stand the thought of the scandal coming back to life. She desperately wanted J.T. to leave, but her anger left a sour taste in her mouth. They’d both sinned. If she sent him way in anger, she’d be a hypocrite. She took a breath to calm herself, then faced him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted at you.”
Relief softened his mouth. “I had it coming.”
He stood still, waiting for her to make the next move. She glanced at Fancy Girl. She’d promised them both a meal, so she indicated his chair. “I’ll get the pot roast. Fancy can have a bone when you leave.”
“Thanks.”
She escaped into the kitchen, dished his food and brought a plate to the table. He smiled his thanks, lifted his spoon and ate. In Abilene they’d lingered over supper with quiet anticipation. Today she used silence like a stage curtain. It hid her memories the way velvet drapes hid the audience, but thoughts of a curtain reminded her of the career she’d lost. Yesterday Roy Desmond, the new manager of the Newcastle Theater, had asked her to star in The Bohemian Girl. Because of the scandal, she had decided to turn him down. If her name showed up on Roy’s fancy theater posters, people might become curious about her past. At the time she’d thought briefly of J.T. and blamed him. She couldn’t possibly sing on stage again, even though she’d been impressed with Roy. An actor himself, he had managed a theater troupe on a Mississippi riverboat. She hadn’t heard of him, but he’d been in Abilene and had heard her sing. He’d mentioned the trial and the gossip, then assured her he’d keep the information to himself. She trusted him.
J.T. finished the pot roast, then broke the silence with a contented sigh. “You sure can cook. I didn’t know that.”
“It’s a family recipe.” She reached idly to straighten the salt shaker.
His gaze dropped to her fingers, no doubt noticing the roughness. Her hands embarrassed her, but she refused to hide them. He arched one brow. “Are you sure I can’t talk you into singing in that saloon in California? It’s a long way from Abilene.”
“I’m positive.”
“Would you think about it?”
“There’s no need.” He’d push until he got what he wanted, and he wanted her. She had to give him another reason to move on. “My mother died
