Merline Lovelace (3 page)

With each thud of his boots on the dirt road, Jack tried to ignore the trim, neat figure encased in blue serge some yards in front of him. He was no more successful at that than he was at shaking off the memory of the curves buried under her layers of whalebone and stiffening.

Not for the first time since he had boarded the stage, claimed a corner seat and assessed his fellow passengers through half-closed eyes, he wondered why the devil this brown-eyed bit of fluff was traveling alone. She could have been shot in that bungled holdup attempt, for God’s sake, or savaged by Parrott and his gang. Although the bluff, seemingly good-natured outlaw insisted on hailing Jack as a friend since the night they’d covered each other in a saloon shoot-out, Parrot sported a mean streak as wide as the lump of flesh on his face.

The knot that formed in Jack’s gut at the thought of his traveling companion in Big Nose Parrott’s hands annoyed him intensely. He’d stated nothing but the truth a while ago. She wasn’t his responsibility, dammit. He had only one responsibility, one that rode his shoulders day and night, and it didn’t have anything to do with honey-eyed, neat-figured females.

She wasn’t even the kind of woman whose company he preferred. By choice as well as necessity, Jack limited his contacts with females to those who made their living servicing men’s needs. The crib girls, parlor women and hurdy-gurdy dancers in these parts knew exactly how to pleasure a man without a lot of fuss or botheration.

That was the way Jack wanted things, the way he intended to keep things. He lived his life a day at a time, with no ties to anyone. Nor was he look
ing to play nursemaid. If
Miss
Bonneaux’s father or brother or fiancé were fool enough to let her climb aboard the Deadwood stage without escort, they were the ones to shoulder the blame for whatever happened to her along the way.

Tugging his hat lower on his brow, he kept his eyes narrowed against the sun’s glare, his senses alert for any sounds or signs of riders, and his gun hand swinging loose. Heat shimmered blue-green above the rutted road. Horseflies swarmed like bees. The watch salesman began to pant and shifted his heavy case from hand to hand.

Jack wasn’t surprised when the woman ahead of him began to limp, but she didn’t voice a complaint or slow her pace, even when the limp grew into a noticeable hobble. As the afternoon wore on and the heat beat down with unrelenting ferocity, Jack had to admit the woman had more sand in her than common sense.

He wasn’t the only one who noticed the limp. The young cawker fretted over her like a mother bear over her cub.

“You look like them boots is hurting you, ma’am.”

“They’re a bit uncomfortable,” she admitted with a stiff little smile, “but I’ll manage.”

“You could, uh, lean on me if you was wishin’ to.”

Her smile softened, spread across her face. In
the blink of an eye, she went from a well-looking if somewhat prissy young female to a warm, full-blooded woman.

“Thank you, Mr. Butts. I shall certainly do so if I find it necessary.”

The boy’s face turned as red as a Pennsylvania outhouse. “I, er… That is…” He swallowed convulsively. “You’re welcome, ma’am.”

Jack sucked in a swift breath, as surprised as the kid at the transformation. If the woman had unpinched her lips long enough to give Jack a look like that when he’d taken her in his arms, he’d have bent her over his arm for sure. Annoyed by the lust that licked through him at the thought, he issued a brusque order.

“Either take the kid’s help or don’t, but keep moving.”

Three faces swung around to his. One was tight with dislike, one still brick-red but disapproving. Even the roly-poly watch salesman managed to forget his fears enough to scowl.

“I’m not planning to sleep under the stars tonight,” Jack stated bluntly.

“I have no particular wish to sleep on the ground, either, Mr. Sloan,” she replied.

“Then hustle your bustle,
Miss
Bonneaux.”

Bright spots of color appeared in her cheeks again. With a swish of lace-trimmed petticoats, she whirled and started off once more.

The boy shot Jack a frown and followed in her wake. Shifting his merchandise case to his other hand, the perspiring salesman swiped at his forehead with his handkerchief and trotted after them.

Jack shrugged aside their accusing looks. There wasn’t a whole lot he could do about the woman’s limp. Cutting off that silly excuse for a boot would only make matters worse for her. A person didn’t sashay barefoot through rattlesnake and scorpion country. If there was a stick of wood to be found on these rolling, treeless plains, Jack might have fashioned her a crutch or a cane. If her limp got much worse, he supposed he’d have to carry her.

The prospect raised a tight smile. He suspected Miss Bonneaux would like being slung over his shoulder about as much as she’d welcome a petticoat full of fleas.

T
he sun was hanging lazily in the sky when the travelers spotted the feathery green cottonwoods surrounding Ten Mile Station. Suzanne had never been so glad to see anything in her life as that distant copse. She felt as though her outrageously expensive, delicately fashionable boots had raised blisters on every one of her toes.

Grinding her back teeth against the pain, she picked her way along the rutted dirt track. Young Matt Butts trudged close behind her. So close behind her, in fact, that his worried face had bobbed into view each time Suzanne drew in a tired breath or reached up to blot the perspiration on her cheeks or neck.

“Looks like it’s still ’bout a half mile,” he estimated, squinting through the late afternoon haze. “Maybe you should sit here on this rock and rest while I go fetch a wagon for you.”

“I’m too hot and thirsty to sit here in the sun. I can walk another half mile.”

“I can see you’re hurtin’ bad. If you don’t want to wait here, I could…” He gulped. “I could carry you.”

His cornflower-blue eyes were kind under his shock of sun-bleached hair, and she found his shy manners endearing. Despite his size, he was really very sweet. And rather handsome when one looked past the obvious. His big hands protruded like hams from his shirtsleeves, and his boots were the size of barn doors, but when he finished growing into his skin, she suspected Mathias Butts would set more than one woman’s heart to fluttering.

“That’s very chivalrous of you, Mr. Butts. If I find I can’t put another foot forward, I’ll take you up on the offer. You might regret it, though.” A dry note crept into her voice. “According to Mr. Sloan, I pack more weight than appearances would indicate.”

“I’m sure he didn’t mean it the way it come out,” her young gallant protested.

Sloan’s derisive snort indicated that he’d intended it
exactly
the way it had come out. The boy shot a reproachful glance over his shoulder before earnestly assuring Suzanne she’d be no burden.

“My pa raised hogs for market. You couldn’t weigh more than the pig carcasses I used to haul to the wagon.”

Another snort came from behind them, this one marked by an unmistakable hint of amusement. Suzanne bit down on the inside of her lip to hide her own smile.

“The end of our trek is in sight, Mr. Butts. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

She made it, but not without experiencing some serious regrets. Gritting her teeth, she limped toward the sod shanty set in the shade of the cottonwoods.

The larger way stations strung every fifty miles or so along the stage line usually included stables, a granary, a blacksmith and repair shop, as well as overnight accommodations for passengers, and the inevitable saloon or two. Smaller swing stations like this boasted only sod or cedar-log huts with a barn and corral large enough to handle twelve or fifteen horses. As Suzanne knew from their previous stop some hours back, Ten Mile Station consisted of a single-room hut, dark and smelling of old smoke. A tattered muslin partition separated the kitchen from the sleeping area. More muslin covered the walls in a futile attempt to keep the crumbling sod from sifting down on everything inside.

As crude as the place was, Suzanne couldn’t wait to reach it. All she wanted was a basin of water to soak her toes, followed in quick order by
some of the bitter coffee and cold beans the station manager had offered the travelers during their earlier stop. Clamping her jaw down against the pain in her toes, she limped up to the door. She’d just reached for the iron latch when it swung open.

The bandy-legged station manager stopped on the threshold. His whiskered jaw sagged in surprise as he took in the dust-covered travelers. “What in thunderation happened to you folks?”

“Road agents,” Sloan said succinctly. “Big Nose Parrott and his gang were waiting for the stage just past Three Mule Creek.”

“Well, shee-it!”

Snatching off his hat, the manager threw it down and stomped the battered felt.

“Pardon my Chinese, ma’am, but that’s twice this month we been holt up! Damned bushwhackers oughta be strung up from the nearest tree.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” she said as he stood back to allow them entry.

Inside, Suzanne sank gratefully onto one of the hand-hewn wooden benches drawn up to the table. The others followed, with the station manager popping questions like firecrackers on the Fourth of July.

“Was anyone hurt? Where’s Jim Billups, the driver? What about the rest of the passengers? And the strongbox? Did Parrott get the strongbox?”

“We don’t know.” Plunking his merchandise
case onto a table, Benjamin Greenleaf collapsed onto the bench opposite Suzanne. “The three of us had just climbed out of the coach when someone started shooting. Last we saw of the stage, it was tearing lickety-split around the bend with Big Nose Parrott and his men chasing after it.”

“Well, I’ll be damned! I’d better get my partner and saddle up to go lookin’ for it. You folks take your ease until we get back.”

“Hold on!”

Sloan’s preemptory command stopped the man in his tracks.

“When’s the next stage to Deadwood?”

The manager hooked a thumb at a yellowed waybill tacked to the wall. “Thursday, if they hold to the schedule.”

“Four days from now? That’s not good enough. I’ve got business in Deadwood that can’t wait. How much for a horse and saddle?”

“Sixty-five dollars for the horse. They’re turned out to graze in the flats behind the barn. Take your pick of any wearing the Express Line brand. As for the saddle, we keep a few spares in the barn. Twenty dollars ought to cover the cost.”

“Done.” Digging a roll of greenbacks from the pocket of his leather vest, Sloan peeled off several bills. “I’ll be heading out in the morning.”

“Suit yourself. The rest of you folks make yourself to home. There’s beer in the barrel and a slab
of salted bacon on the shelf. I’ll be back soon’s I can.”

He stomped to the door, his boot heels thudding on the floorboards. Sloan paused only long enough to lift the lid off the wooden ale keg, swish a tin-handled dipper around and guzzle down several long swallows before he, too, strode out.

The door banged shut behind him.

“Well, how do you like that?” Greenleaf muttered, staring at the closed door. “Off he goes again, without so much as a tip-de-doo or fare-thee-well.”

Suzanne tapped a finger on the table. The oddest sensations swirled in her chest. Annoyance, mostly, edged with a stinging little nip of regret. Really, why should Sloan’s abrupt departure surprise or disappoint her? He’d certainly made it plain that he didn’t care what happened to her or the others. After his sarcastic suggestion that she hustle her bustle, the man hadn’t spoken ten words to her during the long trek back to Ten Mile Station.

Yet there was that moment, when he’d held Suzanne locked against him…

The Misses Merriweather would faint dead away if they knew how desperately their star pupil had wanted to rise up on her toes and take a taste of Black Jack Sloan’s hard, unsmiling mouth.

Her mother would understand, though. Julia
Bonneaux Garrett looked, spoke and acted like the proper officer’s wife she was, but she loved the colonel with all the passion of her French-Creole heritage.

A heritage Suzanne evidently shared more than she’d realized. None of the embraces of her various beaux had fired her blood like those few moments in Sloan’s arms. The fact that she could still feel a little spurt of heat deepened the crease between her brows.

Thoughtfully, she removed her gloves and hat and placed them beside the merchant’s case. The battered case recalled Suzanne to the fact that her own grip was still aboard the coach…and that another stage wasn’t due in until Thursday.

Well, she certainly didn’t intend to sit idly at this isolated way station for four days. Like Sloan, she had pressing business elsewhere.

“I could string up a blanket.”

With a wrench, she brought her whirling thoughts back to the young man standing before her.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I could string up a blanket, so’s you could take off your boots and, uh, stockings.” The inevitable red climbed into his cheeks. “You’d better soak your feet before your blisters fester.”

“Thank you, Mr. Butts. I’ll do so immediately.”

“Please, ma’am,” he pleaded with an embar
rassed smile, “could you see yourself clear to callin’ me Matt? I just can’t get used to hearin’ a ‘mister’ hung ahead of my name.”

“Very well, Matt it is. If you’ll string up that blanket, I’ll see if I can find a basin and the station manager’s supply of medicines.”

She located a dented tin wash bowl readily enough, but soon discovered that the on-hand medicinal supplies were limited to horse liniment, turpentine and a half-empty bottle of Dr. Harvey’s Rheumatic Tonic and Dyspeptic. After one whiff of the tonic, Suzanne decided to place her faith in the simple remedies Bright Water had taught her over the years.

“I saw some agrimony growing among the weeds by the corral,” she said to Matt. “Would you be so kind as to fetch me a few stalks?”

“I would if I knew what it was.”

“It’s a tall, spiky plant with yellow flowers.”

Grabbing his hat from the table, he jammed it onto his thatch of straw-colored curls. “You sit down and rest. I’ll fetch them flowers and be right back.”

“Not just the flowers,” Suzanne called after him. “I need the whole stalk.”

Deciding to visit the necessity out behind the shanty, Mr. Greenleaf asked Suzanne if she’d look after his case. He, too, departed, giving her a few moments of badly needed privacy to slip out of her
jacket, unbutton her blouse and wash away the accumulated dust and grime. She had herself back together again and had put a kettle of water on the hob to boil when Matt returned with an armload of sticky-leafed stalks.

“I always thought these were just weeds.”

“Most people do, but I have a good friend who taught me something of the medicinal properties of these plants.”

“Is he a sawbones?”

“No, a Northern Arapaho medicine woman.”

Matt’s blue eyes widened. It was obvious he found it exceedingly odd that a lady like Suzanne would call an Arapaho friend.

“I’ve never come across any Arapahos. We got some Miami settled in Ohio, and once a band of thievin’ Shawnee broke into our smokehouse in the middle of the night. Pa and my brothers and me run ’em off. I heard about the Arapaho, though.” His face twisted in mingled disgust and curiosity. “Don’t they cut up their enemies and carry bits and pieces of ’em in their medicine bags?”

“They carry whatever their visions tell them they should.”

Long experience had taught Suzanne that few whites shared either her insights or her sentiments regarding Bright Water’s people. She decided not to attempt an explanation of the complex coming-of-age ritual that included seven days of fasting
and prayer before a warrior determined what would go into his medicine bag. Instead, she steered the conversation into less controversial channels.

“What did your pa think of you leaving the farm to go prospecting?”

“He wasn’t too happy ’bout it. My mam ’bout cried up a storm, too. I’m the last of her brood,” he confessed. “All the rest, they claimed their forty acres and settled down close to home.”

“But not you.”

“Not me. I skinned enough hogs and planted enough corn to see me through the rest of my years.”

Hunkering down on the bench opposite Suzanne, he reached for one of the stalks. His big hands stripped the leaves with easy, swift pulls.

“I aim to make my fortune in the gold fields up around Deadwood,” he confided, “then head for San Francisco. I hear a man with a poke of gold in his pocket can see some real fancy sights in San Francisco.”

Suzanne bit her lip. Her real father had been a riverboat gambler. The handsome, dashing Philip Bonneaux had lost at the gaming tables what little remained of her mother’s inheritance after the War Between the States. He’d planned to recoup the family fortunes in the gold fields of Montana Territory, but, like so many lured West by the promise of riches, he’d died penniless. Suzanne had loved
the irrepressible, irresponsible gambler with all her childish heart and still regretted losing him.

“Not everyone strikes it rich in the gold fields,” she warned her young friend gently.

“Maybe not.” A stubborn look settled around his mouth. “But a man’s gotta find his own way…no matter
what
some bit of gingham and sass might say.”

“What’s her name?” Suzanne asked with a smile. “This bit of gingham and sass?”

“Rebecca. Becky.”

“And Becky didn’t want you to leave Ohio?”

“Ha! Not so’s I could tell! She said the hoity-toity ladies of San Francisco was welcome to me…if they had a hankerin’ for overgrown jackasses with empty pockets and an even emptier brainbox.”

“She sounds like a plainspoken woman.”

“When she’s got her wind up, she sounds more like a cat with her tail caught in the barn door.”

Thoroughly disgruntled, he reached for another stalk and twirled it between his big hands.

“She didn’t used to be so bad. I can’t count all the nights we went down to the river to gig frogs together. She knew just how to whack my pa’s ole mule between the eyes, too, when he got ornery and started tryin’ to take a bite out of us. Then she went and put up her braids and there’s been no talkin’ any sense to her.”

“When a girl puts up her braids, she doesn’t always want to hear sensible kinds of things.”

“Becky sure doesn’t.”

Glumly, Matt stared at the shredded leaf in his hand for a moment or two before lifting his gaze to Suzanne.

“She’s a lot like you, Miss Bonneaux. Bigger, maybe, and a bit broader across the…” He made a gesture with the leaf. “The, er…”

“The front?”

“And back,” he agreed sheepishly. “But, like you, she’s not afraid to look a man in the eye.”

He hesitated, uncomfortable with the personal turn of the conversation but clearly wanting advice.

“If you don’t mind me askin’, what kinds of things do you want to hear from a man who comes courtin’?”