Merline Lovelace (7 page)

“No?” Her gaze went to Matt. “Don’t tell me you’re married to this great, beardless gawk.”

“No, I’m not married to him, either. Forgive me, I should have introduced myself. I’m Suzanne Bonneaux.”

“
Miss
Suzanne Bonneaux,” Jack drawled.

She sent him a speaking glance over her shoulder, but the instant clamor that arose at the news she was single precluded any comment. Like a
herd of love-starved buffalo, the saloon patrons snorted, stamped and pawed the earth.

“Here, miss!” A stooped, gray-bearded customer grabbed a chair. “Take yer weight off the feet and sit right down beside me.”

A younger, randier buck whisked the chair from his hands. “She don’t want to sit with a toothless old geezer like you.” With a flourish, he thumped the chair down in the center of the room. “Sit here, miss.”

“Kin I fetch you a beer, ma’am?”

The crush of male admirers carried Suzanne forward. The moment she was seated, a small forest of chair legs scraped the floor. Her smile faltered for a moment as twenty or more men surrounded her and avidly absorbed every detail of her hair, face and figure.

“I’m on my way to Fort Meade,” Suzanne said, breaking the awkward silence. “Have any of you been there?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I have.”

“So have I!”

“Can you tell me how far it is from the fort to the Arapaho camp on the Cheyenne River?”

The three men immediately tried to impress her with their knowledge. Jack left Suzanne attempting to make sense of their conflicting estimates and Matt hovering at the edge of the circle.

Mother Featherlegs joined him at the scarred pine plank that served as a bar. The scent she’d doused herself with rolled from her in waves.

“What’ll you have?”

“Whatever’s wet.”

“Pour him a whiskey,” she told the attendant behind the bar. “Take the kid and the lady a beer, too, would you, Joe?”

“Sure thing, Bess.”

Leaning her elbows on the rough-edged plank, the saloon owner puffed idly. “We don’t get many unattached females passing through these parts.”

“That right?”

“Don’t get many men who keep their holster so well oiled, either.”

Jack grunted and tossed back the shot. The raw-grained alcohol hit his throat with the kick of a half-broke mustang and bucked all the way down to his stomach.

“Are you carrying a name I should recognize, mister?”

“Sloan. Jack Sloan.”

“Black Jack Sloan?”

He grunted again. It was the best he could manage with his gullet spitting fire.

A wary look came over the woman’s face. With a jerk of her curls, she nodded to Suzanne. “You got a claim to the lady that she didn’t want to tell me about?”

“You got some reason for wanting to know?”

“Look, I ain’t prying into your business. I just don’t want one of my customers layin’ a hand on your woman and winding up with a bullet between the eyes.”

The idea of one of these men putting his paws on Suzanne didn’t go down any easier than the whiskey, but Jack forced a shrug.

“The lady can take care of herself.”

“That little bit of a thing?”

“That little bit of a thing.”

With a mental brace, Jack finished the rest of his drink. He’d done what he’d promised to do. He’d brought Suzanne and the kid into Rawhide Buttes. It was time, past time, to be shed of her. Digging into his vest pocket, he pulled out his roll.

“The whiskey’s on me,” Bess Shephard protested.

“This is for Miss Bonneaux and the kid.” He peeled off a few bills, tossed them down on the pine plank. “Big Nose Parrott and his gang got her purse. ’Far as we know, they got the kid’s stake, too. The Express Line will pick up the cost of feeding and bedding them down, but this should cover whatever else they might need.”

The saloon-keep tucked the banknotes into the front of her sweat-stained bodice. “Short on cash, are they?” Puffing like a chimney, she let her gaze drift to Suzanne. “A woman like that one could
make eight, ten dollars a night easy on the dance boards.”

The idea of Suzanne Bonneaux shuffling around the smoke-filled saloon was so absurd that Jack found himself fighting a grin. “Thinking of offering her a job?”

“I lost one of my hurdies to a bleedin’ lung a few months back. I could use another girl to replace her. It’s honest money,” she added. “She wouldn’t have to take no customers out back unless she had a mind to.”

“Why don’t you talk to her about it?” he suggested wickedly. “See what she says.”

“I might just do that, long as you don’t object.”

“What the lady does is no concern of mine.”

And yellow-eyed bats don’t beat night air, Bess Shephard thought, inhaling deeply. She’d been around long enough to recognize a bad case of crotch itch when she saw it. Sloan might not have bedded that bit of fluff and lace, but he wanted to. Bad.

Smiling, she rolled her stogie to one corner of her mouth and bit down. Juice squirted onto her tongue and cut through the fuzz left by the young stallion she’d taken out to her sod hut a few hours back. He’d been so primed he could hardly wait till he got his pole between her gums before he let fly. But unless Bess missed her guess, even that young stud hadn’t hurt for it the way Black Jack
Sloan was hurting for the woman he had brought into Rawhide Buttes.

She wanted him, too. Bess saw the eye games they’d played with each other, she all seemingly exasperated, he with a twist to his mouth that looked ugly but did funny things to a female’s insides.

She hadn’t missed, either, the size of the roll Sloan had pulled out of his pocket. A businesswoman first and foremost, she searched for a way to separate the gunman from a few more of those banknotes.

“You and the kid can bed down in Rosie’s hut. I been renting it out to the stage line since we lost her.” She rolled her cigar around. “If you’re lookin’ for company, I got a little Chinee girl who empties slops and scrubs the boards. She don’t talk much, and lies stiff as a corpse under the men who climb on top of her, but there’s some as prefer a woman who don’t require a lot of fuss or botheration.”

Unlike Miss Suzanne Bonneaux, Bess would bet.

“You want I should send Ying Li to you when you get ready to bed down?”

“No.”

“You sure? You got the look of a man strung tighter than barbed wire.”

Annoyed, Jack shoved away from the bar with
out bothering to answer. Four strides took him to the circle of men surrounding Suzanne. Her gaze met his over their heads. He saw the farewell forming in her eyes.

She’d make out all right. She had a whole passel of men panting to ride shotgun for her tomorrow. If she had any sense, though, she wouldn’t choose the toothless old geezer as her escort. Despite his claim that he used to haul freight up from Cheyenne and knew every rut in the road from here to Fort Meade, he looked ready for the coffin-maker. The randy young buck didn’t strike Jack as any more reliable. The fool made more noise than he did sense. In fact, none of the men clustered around her looked to be either safe or reliable.

Hell! One more day. He’d give her one more day.

“I’m going to see to the horses.” Jack bit out the words so hard his teeth ached. “Can you be ready to ride at dawn?”

For the life of him, he couldn’t tell whether her smile was one of relief or triumph.

“Yes, of course.”

M
other Featherlegs Shephard herself escorted Suzanne and Matt through a yard littered with refuse to the four sod huts behind the saloon. Three were one-room shanties, no larger than the Ten Mile swing station. The fourth belonged to the saloon proprietor and boasted both a parlor and a bedroom, with a fancifully painted muslin curtain draped between the two.

Both rooms reeked of old cigar smoke and lavender-scented toilet water. The strong fumes made Suzanne’s nose itch, while the corsets, stockings and other intimate apparel scattered carelessly in the parlor raised a blush in Matt’s cheeks. He reddened even more when Mother Featherlegs whisked back the muslin curtain to reveal a massive four-poster bed.

Suzanne’s jaw sagged. Not only was the bed the largest she’d ever seen, but each of its four posts
was carved to represent a different mythical creature. A scaly dragon breathed fire in one bottom corner, a sea serpent writhed in the other. At the head, a thick-necked horse reared on its hind legs to paw at a fierce temple dog. Oriental symbols gilded with gold paint decorated the sideboards.

The saloon proprietor beamed at her stunned expression. “Something grand, ain’t it?”

“It’s incredible!”

“Bought it when I bought the Chinee girl. Her pa had it shipped clear across the Pacific and hauled up from the railhead at Cheyenne by freight wagon. Near broke the little bugger’s heart to part with it, but I told him I wouldn’t take the girl without the bed.”

The casual remark considerably diminished Suzanne’s delight in the artistry of the piece. She wasn’t unaware of the custom practiced by some Chinese of selling unwanted daughters. Hundreds of thousands of Orientals had poured into the States to work the transcontinental railroad and the gold fields, with Chinatowns springing up at every railhead and mining camp of any size. In a land with so many lonely men and so few women to ease them, such transactions would occur despite attempts to stem them.

“I changed the straw in the mattress just last week,” Mother Featherlegs told her. “You won’t get bit to death by fleas.”

“Thank you, but I don’t wish to inconvenience you.”

“You won’t. I’ve done finished all the business I intend to do tonight.” Her hostess hooked a thumb toward Matt. “I’ll bed this one down next door with Sloan…unless you want Black Jack in here with you,” she added, a sly look coming into her eyes. “You might sleep easier with him close to hand.”

Suzanne suspected she wouldn’t sleep at all with Jack close to hand. She’d barely slept last night, with him rolled up in a horse blanket just across the doused campfire.

“I appreciate your concern,” she told Mother Featherlegs with a smile, “but I can take care of myself.”

“That’s what Sloan said. He also said you was short of cash.”

“Yes, I lost my purse in the holdup.”

“One of my hurdies died a month or so back. You could earn whatever cash you need on the boards. When I mentioned the idea to Sloan, he suggested I talk to you about it.”

How like him! Suzanne thought, torn between exasperation and amusement. She could almost see the evil glint in his eyes.

Before she could decline the offer of employment, Matt choked out a shocked protest. “Miss Bonneaux went to school in Philadelphia! She kin
recite lines from that Shakespeare fellow by rote. A lady like her wouldn’t want to work the boards.”

Mother Featherlegs’s ruff went up. “Even a lady’s got to eat, boy.”

Hastily, Suzanne intervened before Matt offended their hostess further. “The Express Line will pay for our food and a bed, but I’ll write you a promissory note for any expenses we incur above that.”

“No need for any notes. Sloan passed me a wad of bills for you and the boy.”

“He did?”

“He did. Enough to cover a bath if you want me to get the Chinee girl to heating some water.”

Her surprise at Sloan’s unexpected generosity became instant delight. “Oh, yes!”

The saloon owner turned a droll look on Matt. “Enough for you to get a few beers and a jiggle, too, boy, if you have a mind to.”

His blue eyes almost popped out of his head. Gulping, he cast a wild look at the bed, snatched his hat off his head and crushed it between his fists. “Thank you kindly, ma’am, but I don’t… That is, I, uh…”

“Not with me, you big gawk. I’ve done finished my business for the night. One of the other girls might accommodate you, though, if you was to ask her nice.”

“I…I…”

He couldn’t bring himself to look at Suzanne, but she could see that the idea had sparked his interest. Face burning, he turned and fled.

Disappointment and disapproval on the unknown Becky’s behalf compressed Suzanne’s lips. Toe tapping, she frowned as he disappeared back into the saloon.

“He’s young and full of sap,” the older woman commented. “Won’t hurt him none to let some of it out.”

“The girl he left back in Ohio might not agree.”

Mother Featherlegs shrugged. “If she didn’t want her man spurting his juice into another woman, she should have come with him and took care of him herself.”

Suzanne had to concede the point. Even her mother would echo the saloon owner’s sentiments, if not her exact phrasing. Like so many army wives, Julia Bonneaux Garrett had followed her husband from one frontier post to another, making a home for him and their family in tents, wagons and, at the larger posts, in spacious quarters.

Well, Matt would just have to decide for himself how he would take advantage of Sloan’s surprising generosity. Suzanne had already made up her mind.

“You mentioned a bath. I should love one, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all.” Rolling her cigar, she ambled to the open door and let loose with a bull-like bellow. “Ying Li! Haul yer skinny carcass over here, girl. Chop chop!”

The girl who tripped in on tiny, mincing steps some moments later could have been a younger sister to Bright Water. She looked almost Arapaho with her broad face, heavy-lidded eyes and long, black braid hanging over one shoulder.

But where Bright Water dressed with the style and grace of her people, this girl had obviously been handed the hurdies’ discards. Her skirt of brown homespun was rolled at the waist and tied with a piece of rope, although a long tail still dragged the dirt. Her soiled calico blouse could have fit around her twice. Shoulders hunched, she kept her hands tucked into her sleeves and her eyes downcast.

“Mah-mah call Ying Li?”

“The lady’s wanting a bath. Fetch some buckets of hot water.”

Her dark eyes darted to Suzanne.

“Chop chop, girl. Chop chop.”

Turning, she scurried out.

“Look at that.” Mother Featherlegs shook her head in disgust. “I thought she might have the makin’s of a hurdie when I bought her, but she skitters along like a field mouse. Can’t keep up
with the cowboys who like to go galloping around the boards.”

Rummaging around in her clothes press, she drew out a bloodred silk robe lavishly trimmed with long, dangling black fringe.

“Got this down to Denver some years back. It might hang a bit long on you, but you’re welcome to it.”

“I shouldn’t like to borrow something so fine,” Suzanne protested. “I might soil it.”

“Well, if it’s plain muslin you’re wanting, you won’t find none of it in Rawhide Buttes. Besides, you wouldn’t be borrowing this. Sloan said to give you what you needed.”

Somehow, Suzanne didn’t think Jack had intended his largess to cover the cost of red silk dripping with black fringe.

Or perhaps he had.

She could imagine his mocking grin were he to see her decked out in the garment.

“Well, I’d better go see to my business. The privy’s out back, and there’s soap by the wash bowl. Help yourself to anything else you might need. I’ll send Ying Li with some dinner after she gets your bath going.”

“Thank you.”

The tin hip bath the Chinese girl dragged in was almost as big as she was. Since the bed occupied
every square inch of the back room, she positioned the tub in the center of the parlor. Tripping out, she returned some moments later with a bucket of steaming water. Grunting under its weight, she staggered toward the bath.

“Here, let me help you.”

“No, no, missee. Mah-mah say Ying Li do.”

The girl jerked away from Suzanne’s outstretched hand. Hot water splashed onto her skirt. Wincing, she tottered to the tub and dumped the bucket. When she returned moments later with another, Suzanne had to bite the inside of her lip to keep from offering assistance once again.

Her lip was raw by the time the tin tub was filled with a mix of hot and cold water. Swirling a hand in to test the temperature, she smiled gratefully.

“I feel as though I’m wearing half of Wyoming Territory. I’ll be glad to be rid of it.”

The girl made no comment. Curious about her, Suzanne tried another smile.

“Mother Featherlegs said you don’t work the boards.”

“No, Missee. Ying Li only scrub floor and fuckee-fuck.”

“I…see. Do you, er, like your work?”

“Sometime like, sometime no like.” Beneath the soiled calico, the girl’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “All same, no matter.”

Her attitude didn’t invite pity. More curious than ever, Suzanne couldn’t help probing.

“How long have you been with Mother Featherlegs?”

Her forehead crinkled. “Father sell worthless second daughter three, no, four winters ago.”

Sweet heaven above! The girl must have been a mere child.

“How old are you?”

“Ying Li born the Year of the Dog.”

No wiser than before, Suzanne tried to guess her age. They were about the same height, but that didn’t mean anything. As Suzanne’s younger brother liked to remind her regularly, she stood so short she’d have to borrow a ladder to spit in a grasshopper’s eye. Well, whatever her age, the girl was obviously far older than Suzanne in experience, if not in actual years.

“Ying Li fetch missee’s dinner now?”

“Yes, please.”

While she waited for the girl’s return, Suzanne removed the little derringer from her skirt pocket, then unhooked the waistband and let the navy serge pool around the tops of her borrowed boots. She’d seen enough of life on the frontier to know Ying Li could do worse than scrub floors and…and perform other tasks in Mother Featherlegs Shephard’s Saloon and Hurdy-Gurdy Parlor. Much worse.

And better.

Frowning, she unlaced her boots. Inspection of her toes showed the blisters were still red but healing nicely. With fervent thanks to Bright Water for her remedies, she removed the rest of her clothing and stepped into the steaming water.

“Aah!”

With a fold of her arms and legs, she sank down and promptly forgot Ying Li, forgot her blisters, forgot everything but the pure, sybaritic joy of a good soak. Suzanne’s head lolled back against the tin. Her legs dangled over the front edge of the tub. It was bliss. It was joy. It was heaven. Eyes closed, she remained motionless until the water cooled and her fingertips pruned.

Sighing, she pulled in her legs and wedged herself up on her knees to wash her hair. After rinsing the heavy mass with the bucket of clean water Ying Li had left, she climbed out of the tub, toweled dry with a length of coarse, unbleached linen and slipped into the red wrapper. Carefully, she rolled back the sleeves and knelt beside the tub to wash her drawers and chemise.

Determined not to be a burden on either her hostess or the Chinese girl, Suzanne scooped the water from the tub and made several trips to the door to dump the bucket. She was on her third trip when a broad-shouldered figure loomed out of the darkness.

“Oh! It’s you.”

Sloan strolled forward, declining to answer the obvious.

“I brought your bag,” he said instead, passing her the burlap sack that contained the supplies and few necessities she’d gathered at Ten Mile Station.

“Thank you.”

All too conscious of the way the wet silk clung to her skin, Suzanne put down both the bag and the bucket and fussed unobtrusively with the black fringe.

Not unobtrusively enough. Leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb, Jack let his gaze make its usual slow waltz down her front. The devil danced in his gray eyes when they locked with hers again.

“Mother Featherlegs said she was going to offer you a job.”

“She’s already made the offer.”

“Let her get a glimpse of you in that get-out, and she’ll up your starting wages for sure.”

As much to divert his attention from the thin silk as to satisfy her own curiosity, Suzanne probed for the reason behind his change of heart.

“Why did you agree to escort me to Fort Meade?”

“I didn’t say I’d take you all the way to Fort Meade.”

“How far, then?”

“Let’s just see where the road gets us tomorrow.”

“Why did you change your mind?” she asked again, wanting to know. Needing to know, for reasons that got all mixed up in her head.

“You showed me you could keep up the pace.”

“Keep up?”

“All right,” he admitted with the beginning of a grin. “You can do more than keep up. I suspect you could throw dust in any man’s eyes if you wanted to.”

“I suspect I could,” she replied smugly.

His grin slipped out. It was a real one this time, not the usual mocking twist of his lips. Suzanne responded to it as naturally as spring flowers opened to the sun after a shower. For a few moments, they shared an unaccustomed harmony.

Jack was the one to break it. Straightening, he tipped his hat to her. “I’ll let you get back to your soaking.”

“I’m done. You’re welcome to use the tub,” she added politely, too politely. “I’m sure Ying Li would heat more water.”

His brow quirked. “Is that your way of saying I stink?”

“I wouldn’t go
quite
as far as that.”

“You wouldn’t, huh?” The sardonic gleam she was coming to recognize slid back into his eyes.
“If I decide to take you up on the offer, would you scrub my back?”

She pursed her lips and pretended to be offended by the suggestion, although the idea of gliding her hands over Sloan’s wet, slick muscles did queer things to her stomach.

“I’m sure Ying Li would do that for you, too.”