Merline Lovelace (4 page)

Her thoughts drifted to the dashing young lieutenant under her stepfather’s command. Richard Carruthers had taken one look at Suzanne after she’d arrived home from school and beaten a path to his superior’s front door every night after tattoo. The handsome young officer had a way with words and knew just how to delight a woman with them…unlike a certain crude shootist.

“We like to hear all kinds of silly, nonsensical things,” she told Matt.

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. That our eyes shine like di
amonds, perhaps. Or our sighs pierce your heart like one of Cupid’s darts.”

“Cupid? Isn’t he that fat little angel?”

“I believe he’s usually depicted as a cherub.”

“I never could see what’s so romantic about a mean little bugger who goes around shootin’ arrows into folks.”

Put that way, Suzanne didn’t, either.

“All right. Forget Cupid. Just tell your ladylove that you’ll fashion a bed of roses for her to lie on, and you’ll shower her with the petals.”

“Why would I want her to lay down on roses? The thorns would prick her all over.”

A little desperate now, Suzanne fell back on her favorite playwright. “Well, perhaps you might quote Shakespeare to her.

The brightness in her cheek

would shame the stars

As daylight does a lamp…”

Matt looked dubious. “I’m supposed to say she’s red-faced as an oil lamp? That doesn’t sound so romantical to me.”

“Those lines are from
Romeo and Juliet,
” his adviser informed him. “A good many people believe that’s one of the bard’s greatest plays.”

“If you say so.”

“Trust me. Try that verse on your Becky next time you see her.”

The steam went out of him. His shoulders slumping, he reached for another stalk.

“That might be sooner than either of us figured on. If Big Nose and his gang caught up with the stage and cleaned it out, all I’ve got to my name is the handful of coins in my pocket. They won’t buy what I’ll need to get through the winter at Deadwood.”

Judging by her father’s experiences in the Montana gold fields, Suzanne couldn’t help but think losing his stake and being forced to return home to his Becky might be the best thing that could happen to Matt. But she said nothing as he scooped up an armful of the stripped stalks and headed for the now-steaming kettle.

“I’ll put these on to boil for you.”

Twenty minutes later Suzanne sat down on a bunk, propped both hands behind her on its coarse blanket and dipped her feet into the tin washbasin.

“Oo-o-oh.”

Instant relief washed through her. Her head fell back against the muslin-draped sod wall behind her. Eyes closed, she let Bright Water’s remedy work its magic.

A spoonful or two of mashed agrimony in a cup of water also made for a good mouthwash, she
remembered hazily. A couple of swishes would take away the taste of trail dust and the slightly rancid beans she and Matt had downed while waiting for the concoction to boil. She should wash her hair, too, she thought. The heavy mass was coated with dust and slipping out of its pins again. She’d put herself back together, she decided, when her footbath cooled and she could gather enough energy to move.

She had no idea how long she lolled against the bumpy wall, eyes closed, petticoats tucked up around her knees, feet immersed. But when she blinked awake, the interior of the way station was dark and Jack Sloan stood at the end of her bunk.

J
ack’s fingers fisted on the coarse blanket someone had strung up for a curtain. The kid, probably. Young Butts was so awed by the prim, prissy Miss Suzanne Bonneaux he could hardly put one foot in front of the other without tripping all over himself.

She didn’t look particularly prim or prissy now, though. Startled from sleep, she looked rumpled and confused and all too enticingly female. His glance lingered on the warm-brown hair spilling over her shoulders. The hint of soft curves where she’d unbuttoned her high-necked blouse. The rucked-up skirt that bared pale, shapely legs.

With a sudden clenching in his gut, Jack imagined those legs locked around his. He could almost hear her hoarse pants. Almost feel her bare heels digging into his calves as he spread her wide, found the slit in her drawers, surged into her slick, hot flesh.

“Mr. Sloan!”

Feeling like a bucking, twisting mustang brought up hard and short at the end of a forty-foot snubbing line, Jack jerked his gaze to her face. She struggled upright on the bunk and blinked the last of the sleep from her eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“Enjoying the show.”

Flushing, she tossed down her skirts and yanked her feet from the basin. “I don’t suppose it occurred to you that I might wish for a little privacy?”

“It occurred to me. It also occurred to me that I forgot to tell the station manager what to do with the gear I stashed in the stage boot. Ask him to sell the saddle, would you? He can forward whatever he gets for it along with my bags to me in care of the Express Office in Deadwood.”

Judging by the expression on her face, she itched to tell him precisely what he could do with his saddle, saddlebags and instructions to the station manager. A contrary disappointment rippled through Jack when she bit back the tart reply he’d come to expect of her.

“Very well.”

With a nod, he dragged the mattress off the bunk above her and hauled it into the kitchen. Butts and Greenleaf had claimed the other two bunks. Jack
would bed down by the fire and be on his way at first light.

Not that he’d get much sleep. He was too edgy, too frustrated by the unexpected delay. That was what came of selling his horse and jumping on a damned stage. He’d be lucky now to reach Deadwood before Charlie Dawes got wind Jack was after him and took off again.

The possibility burned a hole in his gut. Dawes was the last one. The only one still alive. Jack had been hunting him for two years now. The idea that he was so close, only a few days’ ride away, had Jack flexing his gun hand. Dawes wouldn’t get away this time.

Memories crowded in on him. Of another night, another sod hut. Even after all these years, he could still hear the screams. Still feel the anguish. And the rage. It knotted his muscles, wrapped around his chest, buried its fangs in his throat.

Cold, hard certainty settled in his gut. Dawes wouldn’t escape him this time.

Shaking himself like a dog to chase away the memories, he unbuckled his gun belt and hooked it over the back of the closest chair. He was about to drop onto the straw mattress when he spotted a half-full bucket beside the fire. Evidently
Miss
Bonneaux hadn’t appropriated all the water in the place to soak her dainty feet.

Giving in to the urge to remove a few layers of
road dirt, he swung the bucket onto the table and shrugged out of his leather vest. His shirt followed the vest onto a chair. The water felt so good when Jack splashed it over his neck and shoulders, he gave himself a thorough dousing. Still bent over the bucket, he scraped a hand over his jaw. He carried a straight razor and change of clothes in his saddlebags. If the bags didn’t turn up in Deadwood in a day or two, Jack would have to replace their contents.

The possibility that he might have lost everything he owned didn’t particularly concern him. He traveled light, always had. Always would, he supposed, until he grew too old or too slow to outgun the next whiskeyed-up fool who drew on him.

It would happen. Probably sooner instead of later. A man with his reputation wasn’t likely to die all wrinkled and shriveled up, laid out in a bed with a preacher saying words over him. He’d go down with a bullet in his chest…or in his back. Putting Black Jack Sloan in a pine box would give a man bragging rights for the rest of his life, however the deed was accomplished.

Well, he’d known what would happen when he’d first strapped on his father’s old army Colt. He’d made his choice then, and would live with it, no matter.

A sudden crash shattered the stillness. Jack dived for his gun belt. In a move that was pure
instinct, he whipped the Colt free of the holster, spun around and dropped into a half crouch.

Ten yards away, Suzanne froze. The tin basin that had slipped from her fingers clattered noisily at her feet. Spilled water soaked the hem of her skirt, but she didn’t move, didn’t dare breathe with that long, deadly barrel pointed right at her heart.

“What happened?” Benjamin Greenleaf popped upright on his bunk, blinking owlishly. “What’s going on here?”

“Sloan!”

Two giant boots hit the floor with a thud. Matt sprang up and looked wildly at the man crouched beside the banked fire.

“Are you drawin’ on Miss Bonneaux?”

With a muttered curse, Jack straightened and tipped up the Colt.

“I wouldn’t advise you to come creeping up on a man like that,” he snapped at the still-frozen woman. “The next one might be a little quicker to burn powder than I am.”

“I wasn’t…”

Suzanne swallowed, almost as annoyed by the squeak in her voice as she was shaken by what had just transpired.

“I wasn’t creeping up on you. I was going out to empty the basin and accidentally dropped it.”

It was the truth. More or less. She’d pour honey over her head and curl up on an anthill before
she’d admit that the sight of Sloan sluicing himself down had stopped her dead in her tracks. Like some wide-eyed fool at a carnival, she’d gawked at his broad shoulders and corded muscles, until the blasted basin had slipped right out of her hands.

Even now she had to fight to keep her gaze from straying to his naked chest. It was wide and well-ribbed, shadowed with dark, curling hair still glistening from the water. Swallowing, Suzanne scooped up the basin.

“I’m very sorry to have awakened you gentlemen,” she said to Matt and Greenleaf. “Please, go back to sleep.”

They reclaimed their bunks, and Suzanne fingered the dented tin bowl while Sloan reached for his shirt. Common sense told her to keep her mouth shut, forget the proposal she’d been considering for some hours now, but common sense wouldn’t get her to Bright Water.

Slowly, she moved across the room. “May I have a word with you?” she asked, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb the others again.

“You can have two,” Sloan replied carelessly, “if you’re quick about them.”

When she didn’t answer right away, he shoved his shirttails into his pants and shot her a quizzical look.

“You want something,
Miss
Bonneaux?”

“Yes.” Ignoring both his deliberate sarcasm and
the little inner voice that told her she was about to grab a rattlesnake by the tail, she plunged right to the heart of the matter. “I’d like to hire you.”

One black brow shot up. Whatever Sloan had expected from her, that clearly wasn’t it.

“Hire me?”

“Hire your gun, if you will. I have pressing business that requires me to reach Fort Meade, in Dakota Territory, as soon as possible. Like you, I can’t wait for the next stage.”

“You’ll have to,” he said with a shrug. “I’m not for hire. Neither is my gun.”

“You don’t understand. It’s imperative that I get to the Arapaho reservation on the banks of the Cheyenne River within the next few days. I have a friend there who…”

“I don’t give two hoots in Hades who’s waiting for you, lady. My business is in Deadwood, not Fort Meade.”

“The fort is only a half day’s ride out of your way.”

“That’s a half day too long,” Sloan said flatly, swinging away.

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

He stopped, turned back, raked her with a slow, mocking glance. “One of Big Nose Parrott’s boys snatched your purse. Just what kind of payment are you offering?”

“Not that kind!”

“Too bad. I might have reconsidered.”

“Please don’t play these games with me, Mr. Sloan. As I’ve already told you, I find them rather tedious.”

Something flickered in the depths of his gray eyes, quickly come and just as quickly gone. He stepped forward, crowding her against the table. He was so big he blocked the rest of the room from sight, so close she could smell his damp skin.

“Just what makes you think this is a game?”

A shiver danced along her spine. It wasn’t fear. Oddly, she didn’t fear him, but his nearness made her nerves snap and crackle like ice too thin to bear her weight.

“I’m not a child, Mr. Sloan, nor quite the helpless female you seem to think I am. These heavy-handed threats don’t frighten me.”

“They damned well ought to. Do you really believe that little peashooter in your pocket would protect you if I decided to bend you over that table and flip up your skirts?”

“No,” she fired back. “Nor do I believe you’re the kind of man who would rape a woman, or I wouldn’t have asked for your escort.”

His eyes went cold. “You don’t have any idea what kind of man I am.”

Suzanne knew she ought to retreat before the ice broke under her and she sank in over her head. If
her blood hadn’t been pounding in her ears, if his nearness hadn’t set her pulse to jumping, she wouldn’t have countered his claim with a soft reminder.

“You dragged me down and shielded me this afternoon. That tells me something.”

This time he didn’t bother to deny he’d tried to protect her. “So I dragged you down? You’re a fool if you think all men don’t tote around equal parts good and mean. It’s just a matter of which part gets scratched when.”

Sloan wasn’t saying anything she hadn’t heard preached from the pulpit many times. What’s more, her stepfather had drummed the same lesson into her. In his careful way, the colonel made sure she understood the risks of growing to womanhood surrounded by troopers who could perform the most heroic deeds or the most outrageous acts depending on the circumstances and the amount of liquor they’d consumed.

“I’ll try not to scratch you the wrong way,” she promised softly.

“You already have, lady.”

Much as it went against her grain to beg, she made another appeal. “Please, Mr. Sloan. I must get to Fort Meade.”

“Not with me,” he repeated flatly. “I’m not for hire.”

He rode out just before dawn.

Suzanne came awake to the thump of boots crossing the dirt floor, followed by the creak of the door hinges. She lay still for a moment, thinking of the previous night. Thinking, too, of the empty stretch of days that loomed ahead. It was the middle of September. This unseasonable heat would break any day. Overnight, the air would snap with cold. Bright Water’s people were probably already taking down their teepees. If anyone but her dearest friend was camped beside the Cheyenne River, Suzanne might have curled into a tight ball and told herself she’d done her best.

Instead, she swung her feet off the bunk, combed her fingers through her tangled hair and contemplated her sadly wrinkled clothing. Before falling asleep last night, she’d removed her more uncomfortable garments, including her tight half jacket and her stays. She dangled the stiff-boned corset by its laces for a few moments before deciding to abandon it completely. Her waist was small enough that she didn’t really need lacing to fit into her skirt, and if she followed through with the plan that was taking shape in her mind, she certainly wouldn’t need the added discomfort.

When she emerged from her blanketed cubicle, she found the others had risen, too. Benjamin Greenleaf had gone to make a morning trip to the privy. Matt, bless him, had already stripped,
mashed and boiled another handful of agrimony stalks.

Suzanne thanked him with a smile. “Your Becky’s a lucky woman, whether she knows it or not.”

Quickly, she bathed her feet, then tore a narrow strip from one of her petticoats. Matt eyed her doubtfully as she dipped the linen in the healing solution and bent to wrap it around her toes.

“Don’t see how you’re going to pull on them flimsy shoes with your toes all bundled up like that.”

“I don’t intend to pull on my shoes.” Tucking in the ends of the bandage, she started on her other foot. “Would you be so kind as to search the barn to see if you could find me a spare pair of work boots?”

He looked surprised, as though he couldn’t imagine a lady like Suzanne clumping around in borrowed boots, but clapped his hat on his head willingly enough.

“Yes, ma’am.”

While he searched the barn, Suzanne put the coffee on to boil and performed another search of the kitchen shelves. Her explorations yielded a corked bottle of molasses and a small burlap sack of oats alive with weevils. Picking out the wiggling white insects with a thumb and forefinger, she flicked them into the banked fire and mashed the oats.
Boiled and sweetened with molasses, they’d make a welcome change from cold beans.

The lumpy porridge was ready when Greenleaf returned from the privy and Matt from the barn.

“I found these,” he said doubtfully, holding up a scruffy pair of work boots. “I scraped the muck off best I could, but they still carry something of a stink.”

“More than something!” the watch salesman protested with a grimace.

“They’ll do,” Suzanne said calmly. They’d have to, she thought, breathing in the rich, familiar odor of horse manure. “Put them down and have some breakfast. Then I must ask you for one more favor.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I need you to go out to where the horses are grazing and bring in one for me to saddle.”

“Miss Bonneaux!”

Matt dropped the boots with a thump. “You can’t be thinking of riding to Deadwood by yourself!”

“If I must. But I expect I’ll catch up with Mr. Sloan on the trail.”

The two males exchanged glances.

“We couldn’t help but overhear you and Sloan arguing last night,” Greenleaf confessed. “He sounded like he meant it when he said he wouldn’t act as your escort.”