In the morning, he'd find some way of making himself respectable before heading for the Double H. He didn't know the Hardings, but his brother Daniel had given him their names as people he could rely on. People like that were rare, and he'd traveled a mighty distance to find them. He just hoped they were the sort who were willing to risk investing in a gold mine.
Buttoning his denims, Mulloney glanced in the direction of a light flickering from a nearby window. He wondered what emergency kept anyone up at this hour. Fingering the two weeks growth of beard on his jaw, he almost turned and walked away until he saw a silhouette appear between the curtained window and the lamplight.
He almost swallowed his tongue as he watched the silhouette drop the bodice of her gown and bend over what must be a basin of water. She moved with the grace of a sylph, supple as a willow as she swung a cascade of long hair over her head and dipped it into the water. Mulloney had to grab a branch overhead to keep from falling on his face. He knew it had been a long time since he'd had a woman, but he'd never strained his pants at the sight of a shadow before. He really must be in bad shape.
What in hell was the damned woman doing washing her hair at this hour? He had half a mind to yell at her for her foolishness, but then he told himself he was being an idiot and tried to turn back to camp. He couldn't do it.
He was fascinated by the sight of long slim arms scrubbing and lifting the thickest hair he'd ever had the pleasure of viewing. He wondered what color it was. He'd never watched a woman wash her hair before. He'd never imagined what an erotic show it could make. His pulse throbbed as she squeezed the tendrils dry and stood up shaking the long tresses over her shoulders. She had her back to the window, and he could see only the hourglass shape of curving hips and slender waist and supple back. He willed her to turn around.
She lifted her hair with a comb or brush, he couldn't see which. The thin muslin curtains concealed too much. He almost convinced himself he was a pervert probably watching some old lady who couldn't sleep. Then she turned so her breasts were outlined against the flimsy material, and he felt his mouth go dry. She was perfect.
High full breasts sloped down to a narrow rib cage his palms could almost feel. Thick hair flowed loose and easy past a slender waist to rounded buttocks. Hell, he'd hold her if she were eighty. He would bury himself inside her if she were purple with pink spots. He didn't care what the hell she looked like as long as she had a body like that.
The lamp in the window went out and he cursed. She must be sitting there brushing her hair in the dark. He wondered if she could use a little help. As exhausted as he was, he wouldn't be able to sleep for the rest of the night after that little show.
He ought to know better by now. Unless she was a whore, she wasn't available. He'd had his fill of whores for the moment. Catalina had been the last of a whole string of them. He didn't need the grief. Maybe when he was rich, he'd go back East and find himself a fashionable young lady and sweep her off her feet. Until then, he was better off tending to himself.
Loins aching, he curled into his bedroll. As he suspected, sleep eluded him. He wished there was enough water in the river to douse himself, but he suspected he'd need more water than it took to douse a major fire before he cooled off. He wasn't sure he would survive long enough to make a fortune and go back East to find a willing woman. He wanted one right now.
He'd denied himself a great deal over these last years. Maybe he denied himself unnecessarily now. There had to be women out here somewhere who needed a man as much as he needed a woman. He just needed to find one who wasn't a whore.
Peter dozed briefly until a whicker from his horse made him push back to wakefulness. That's when he smelled the smoke.
* * *
Janice pulled her comb through a tangle of hair, wincing as she worked it out. The task of washing and combing her hair had soothed her, but not enough to make her face that empty bedroom. Even now, with the lights out and the whole world asleep, the little house echoed of silence. She kept listening for Betsy's breathing.
She had spent ten years listening for Betsy's breathing. In that first year she'd been terrified every time she couldn't hear it, certain death had come to steal her away. She had slept with the baby in her bed so she could reach out and touch her chest and reassure herself every time she heard the silence. And when she knew the infant was all right, she would weep herself to sleep, ashamed because she had almost wished the child had died.
There had been times since then when the burden of living had become so grueling and painful that she had wished the angels would carry Betsy to a better place, but those times were long past. From that terrified, guilt-ridden fifteen-year-old, she had grown into a woman who knew her own strengths and weaknesses and used them to her advantage. Betsy was her biggest weakness and her greatest strength. For her child, Janice would and could do anything. Should the world discover that Betsy was actually her bastard and not her sister, her reputation would be shredded and her means of earning a living lost. She would be forced to turn to prostitution to stay alive—the only suitable occupation for a fallen woman like herself.
She walked a tightrope every day of her life. Even Betsy didn't know the truth. That was the reason Janice had finally capitulated and let Betsy go with the Hardings to Natchez. A sister would be much more apt to let someone else take care of a younger sibling than a possessive mother would.
But she suffered for it. It had been nearly a week now, and Janice couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't occupy her mind with anything but worrying about Betsy. She had always been the one to see that Betsy got her rest, that she ate right, that she didn't overexert herself, that she took her medicine at all the right times. Betsy had always been too weak to run and play with the other children, so she had always been right there by Janice's side. It was like losing her right arm not to have her here.
But someday Betsy would have to learn to live on her own. Janice knew that was the healthy outlook to take. She just had a hard time accepting it. Ellen at the dry goods store was only sixteen. In six more years, Betsy would be old enough to be married and pregnant too. Janice couldn't bear to think about her life stretching on forever while Betsy went her own way, leaving nothing but this emptiness. But it had to be that way if Betsy was to lead a happy life, and Janice wanted that more than anything.
So she consoled herself that Betsy was happy now. She was with friends who didn't mind that she couldn't keep up with them. She had people to look after her. She had a teacher who could teach her to use the art set she received for her birthday. Janice smiled at the memory of Betsy's excitement upon unwrapping the gift. She had practically danced up the walls. It was worth the extra hours Janice had worked at copying pages of legal text for the lawyer's office.
Her eyes ached from staying up so late tonight finishing the task, but she might as well continue earning the money since she couldn't sleep anyway. Maybe she could save enough to offer to pay James Peyton to come into town regularly to give Betsy lessons. The older man was losing his eyesight and the palsy in his hand prevented him from holding a brush, but he still knew how to teach painting and drawing. His encouragement gave Betsy the kind of confidence she needed.
Janice pulled on her cotton nightgown and braided her still damp hair. Summer hadn't officially begun but the night was hot. She'd never in her life slept without clothing because she'd always lived in a house filled with people and no privacy, but with Betsy gone, she was almost tempted. Maybe as the summer heated up, she would try it. It gave her something else to think about.
She heard a horse whinny outside, and she frowned as she moved toward her narrow bed. There had been some problem earlier in the year with vagrants helping themselves to horses down at the livery and breaking into henhouses for their meals, but none had been seen lately. The sheriff had dealt with the thieves, and word had apparently spread to avoid Mineral Springs. Somebody must have left their animal tied up outside for some reason.
She was just pulling the covers back on the bed when the pounding started on the door.
"Fire! There's a house on fire! Give me some pails!"
Fear jostled Janice's insides: a brush of panic at a strange male voice, the knowledge of what fire could do in a town of wood like this. But she had handled more than her fair share of emergencies in the past. Sliding on her slippers, she grabbed a wrapper and hurried for the water pail on the stove.
She barely noticed the shadowy figure filling her doorway as she threw open the door and thrust the pail out. Obviously, he had to be tall and broad to fill her doorway like that, but other than noting the bristly beard, she had no opportunity to see anything else. He grabbed the pail and ran for the pump, yelling for her to find help.
He didn't have to remind her. She could see the flames leaping from the roof of the schoolhouse. The schoolhouse. Panic really did grab a lungful of air from her then. That was her livelihood, her main source of income, the reason she had use of this house. She set her slippers to running for the fire bell at the end of the road.
Men stumbled from houses and saloons and barns as the bell clanged and echoed and shattered the night silence. A rooster crowed. A donkey brayed. A shout went up from someone who saw the flames. Pretty soon the street filled with running men, most half-dressed and bleary-eyed. The last time there had been a fire, they had almost lost half the town.
Women and children staggered out after them. Boys pulling suspenders over nightshirts galloped down the road, their hands filled with buckets. The pitiful excuse for the town water tank was rolled out from behind the livery by the strongest men in town, and they raced down the street hauling it by the traces that should have held horses. They'd bought the fire engine after the last fire, but the town council had never decided whether to buy horses or ask for volunteers to pull it.
Janice grabbed another pail and washbasin and ran after them. Her house was closest to the fire, the most likely to catch next. The generosity of a trust fund from Jason's stepmother had allowed the school board to build the little house near the school when Janice had arrived with Betsy. Teachers with children to raise had been unheard of until then. The school board had only been willing to accept Janice because she was the only candidate available after a year's search. She'd had to sign a contract to stay on for five years when they offered to build the house. The five years were up, and if something wasn't done to stop the fire, so would be her job and the house.
She handed her containers to two children and grabbed the pump handle away from the man filling a bucket. He didn't argue but took his bucket and ran to where the fire was spreading to the grass around the school. Janice pumped the old handle up and down, filling every bucket and pan and bowl shoved beneath the spout. She was used to the old pump. She'd had to use it every day of her life for the last five years. Her arms no longer strained at the task.
She kept glancing over her shoulder at each shout and yell from the leaping fire. Her heart stuck in her throat as she saw the flames licking along the roof rail. There wasn't any chance of saving it now. They could only try to contain it.
The faces running up with empty containers were black with smoke, but she recognized most of them. She'd lived here long enough to know every man, woman, and child in town. The few she didn't know were most likely traveling drummers coming through town on the stage, stopping off long enough to sell their wares before moving on.
The only one that didn't fit that description was the large man with the beard. He returned more times than any of the others, flying over the field with long strides and quick, incisive movements as he took charge of the most dangerous spots. He lined up women in a water line to the schoolhouse, sending boys to carry water from the women to the men closest to the fire. He was too impatient to wait for the containers to be passed along the line. He grabbed them out of waiting hands to throw their contents on flames licking along the dry grass and up the trees, heading straight for the house.
"A shovel," he demanded of Janice as he shoved a bucket into someone else's hands. He looked braced to run as soon as she gave him directions.
"Tool shed, back there." Janice nodded at the precarious lean-to attached to the privy.
He was off and running before the words left her mouth. Minutes later, she saw him digging a trench across the school yard, flinging dirt on trails of fire while ordering someone else to keep an eye on the cottonwoods. The man knew what he was about. Janice breathed a sigh of relief. It was good having someone who knew what they were doing.
The schoolhouse couldn't be saved. She knew that. The men futilely emptied the water tank on the blaze and succeeded only in sending billowing clouds of smoke into the air, causing them to cough and gag and fall back. The lines of women and children passing containers of water faltered as smoke and exhaustion thinned the ranks. Janice felt her own shoulders and back ache with every pump of the handle. She would be stiff for a week, but she couldn't stop now. There was still a chance to save her house.
The man with the beard seemed to be working toward that goal now. He yelled at the ranks of faltering water carriers to cover the side yard between the two buildings. The schoolhouse was on the outskirts of town. The schoolteacher's house was the next closest building. Dry grass and the dry riverbed were all that separated her house from the rest of town. From the river, buildings scattered to the right and left, up and down the main street. They had to stop the fire here, where there was only grass to burn.