Page 51 of A Vine Mess
“He definitely has some duds,” I agreed. “But those aren’t it.”
“Preach, sis,” he said with a wink as we loaded into the van.
I chuckled as we pulled out and headed for Deadwood.
There was so much more to this man than I thought, and I was loving peeling back his layers, excited by the prospect of what I’d uncover next.
Deadwood, South Dakota, was one of my new favorite places. The buildings had that old western vibe that made me feel like we’d stepped back in time. There were frequent shootout demonstrations and music in the streets, the people were friendly as hell, and it was a gorgeous day to simply wander around without any destination in mind.
I’d been terrible so far on this trip aboutbuying my family souvenirs, so I forced Liam to stop in no fewer than twenty shops with me. Much to his chagrin, we spent nearly an hour in a cobbler’s store while I tried on several pairs of cowboy boots, FaceTiming my sisters to get their opinions on which ones I should buy.
I had an ulterior motive, though. I wasn’t even remotely surprised when they each chose different pairs as their favorites, and they were all coming home with me as presents. Would they be mad at me for spoiling them? Of course. But what good was my money if I didn’t spend it on the people I loved most?
For myself, I settled on a pair of classic tawny brown ones with beautiful detailing along the vamp and shaft in black thread. Combined with my outfit that day of ripped skinny jeans, tank top, and my tattoos fully on display, I felt like a bit of a bad ass.
I didn’t feel even a little bit bad when Liam offered to carry the bags of boots down the street and I let him. The whole thing seemed very…domestic. Like he was my boyfriend, and man enough to carry the spoils of my shopping adventures.
My head was on a swivel as we stepped back into the sun, seeking our next stop, when we were halted on the sidewalk by a man pointing a toy gun in my face and saying, “Hand over your wallet.”
He looked haggard, his black cowboy hat dusty and well loved, his chaps soft and buttery over blue jeans that had faded—purposely or from use, I had no idea.
Though I knew he was an actor, he had perfected the lawless cowboy persona, a sneer on his lips, his dark eyes narrowed in anger.
Before I could react—a laugh had gone as far as bubbling inmy throat, never to be released—Liam stepped between me and the man. “I don’t fucking think so, pal.”
The man blinked, clearly confused, and I’d bet good money no one had ever challenged him like that before.
As he lowered the gun, the man said, “I’m just messing around.”
“Pick another target.”
I knew it was all an act, that the man truly didn’t mean me any harm, but Liam stepping in front of me and protecting me? Fuck. My panties might’ve gotten a little wet at the sudden rush of desire I experienced. I could take care of myself, but it was ridiculously sexy that he wanted to do it for me.
With his hands raised in surrender, the man stepped around us and disappeared down the street. Not long after, I heard laughter coming from behind us as he claimed his next victim.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I told him as we stepped into the street, his hand looped around my elbow to steer me around an oncoming carriage towed by a massive horse.
Liam chuckled softly, almost disbelievingly, to himself. “I know. That was an overreaction. But I saw a gun and…just moved.”
“So what you’re saying is you’d take a bullet for me,” I joked.
When he glanced down at me, his expression was serious as he said, “Of course I would.”
Fucking hell. This man and his proclamations. If he kept saying shit like that, I’d wind up as nothing more than a puddle at his feet.
Desperate for a subject change, I said, “What do you say we take these bags to the van and pay a visit to the cemetery?”
“Sure.”
After dropping my shopping spoils off, we headed up the hill, away from town and to the ridge that overlooked it where Mount Moriah Cemetery was. Cemeteries had always given me the creeps—it was why I rarely went to visit my grandparents in Traverse City—but there was something particularly sinister hanging over this one. Maybe it was because it was the final resting place of outlaws like Wild Bill Hickok and Calamity Jane.
People meandered along the pathways, but a number of them seemed to be heading straight toward the monument to Wild Bill then taking their leave immediately after.
I could see the draw. The armless bronze bust was an incredible likeness—I assumed anyway; I’d never actually seen his photo. But the artist had paid great attention to detail, at the very least. Face intricately rendered, shaggy hair blowing on a phantom wind, almost as if he lived on in spirit.
“Did you know most of Wild Bill’s notoriety came from fictitious stories he told about himself?”
I turned to Liam, who had stepped up beside me to admire the monument. “Really? I thought he was like a super bad guy.”
