Sundancer (Cheyenne Series) (23 page)

      
She nodded. “He wants to be white. He's educated, hardworking—everything he should be, and yet our fine Christian society won't give him a chance.”

      
She did wear her heart on her sleeve. “Aye. He is all that. I've come to rely on him this past year. The men may resent his blood, but they respect him and follow his orders. That's why I've decided to give him a promotion. He's done a lot more than round up drunken workers and stop their brawls. I've decided to make him my chief of operations.”

      
Roxanna was stunned. “Are you doing this because I'm your granddaughter and I married him?”

      
What she said struck too close to home. He cleared his throat, wondering if he would have eventually given Cain the job even if he had not married Alexa. “I did it because I believe he can do it—and it isna' easy work.” That much was true. “Now that the peace with the Central Pacific's been broken, we'll have a real cutthroat race on.”

      
“You mean to reach Salt Lake before they do so the Union Pacific gets more federal subsidy?”

      
“Aye. Yer a quick one, lass,” he said with a twinkle, relieved that she did not take Cain's sudden promotion amiss.

      
She smiled for the first time. “I've been listening to you and Cain and other men. Everyone between Cheyenne and Laramie is talking about the competition to lay the most track.” Then her expression shifted as she stared out the window at the distant mountains. “I only hope he'll return safely in time for the welcome party in Laramie Saturday.”

      
“Cain will be in Laramie right enough, but if we do na' finish our breakfast and get a move on, we'll be the ones late.” He checked his heavy gold pocket watch and added, “The trains pull out for Laramie in two hours.”

Chapter Eleven

      
Isobel Darby's account was credited with two thousand dollars two days after her confrontation with Roxanna. The widow relished the idea of her enemy spending the past week in nervous apprehension, wondering when she would be unmasked. But Isobel had other plans. Smiling serenely, she stepped from the Central Pacific train just arrived from Sacramento. The ride through the mountains to San Francisco had been nerve-wracking, but even the sooty chugging locomotive was better than being slammed about in a cramped stagecoach as she had on the first leg of the journey.

      
She checked the address on the card and signaled a hackney, issuing crisp instructions for her destination. A quarter hour later the Widow Darby was ushered into Andrew Powell's ornate offices. “Mr. Powell has been expecting you, Mrs. Darby,” Ezra Harker said respectfully, curious in spite of his professional mien as to why a busy man such as his employer would deign to interrupt a tight schedule to confer with a mere female, even if she was a handsome-looking one.

      
Andrew Powell rose and rounded his heavy cherry wood desk to greet her. The room, large and expensively furnished in muted dark colors, suited him perfectly. She felt startled by a spark of attraction. He radiated power as he crossed the Aubusson carpet and took her hand, fixing her with cool blue eyes.

      
“Mrs. Darby. A pleasure, madam.” Powell bowed over her hand, applying just the right amount of pressure as he touched his lips to her gloved fingertips, then escorted her to one of a set of bergère chairs. They took their seats facing each other as his secretary closed the door. Then he spoke. “I understand from your wire that you have some valuable information for me concerning Jubal MacKenzie's granddaughter.”

      
“First let me set some ground rules, Mr. Powell,” she said briskly, ignoring his charm. “If the information proves useful to you, I trust the sum I named in compensation will be acceptable.”

      
“Ten thousand dollars is a great deal of money, Mrs. Darby.”

      
Her expression was glacial as the Sierras. “For a man who receives five times that much for every mile of track he lays between here and the Rockies, I should think it quite modest indeed.”

      
Powell studied the determined-looking widow for a moment. She was cold as a well digger's ass in spite of the syrupy drawl in her voice, yet something about her naked avarice excited him. He nodded at length. “Point well taken, Mrs. Darby. I shall pay you the ten thousand...if the information is useful.”

      
Isobel Darby's thin lips widened in a sly smile, revealing small perfect white teeth. “In that case, let me tell you all about Alexa Hunt and Roxanna Fallon...

      
As the widow spun her incredible tale, neither she nor Powell noticed the door to the adjoining office had been left slightly ajar. Inside it, working quietly at his desk, Lawrence let his pen drop, spilling a large blotch of ink onto the account ledger while he listened.

* * * *

      
Cain rode into Laramie in the late afternoon, frustrated, exhausted and filthy from eight days on the trail without even the simple amenities of a drink of whiskey or a shave. He headed the chestnut down A Street to the railroad depot where Jubal's private car should be, ignoring the raucous Saturday night crowd of railroad laborers, miners, gamblers and floozies. He was all too familiar with the hostile uneasy whispers of the men and the speculative come-hither looks of the women.

      
His wife was waiting for him. He hoped Jubal had been able to secure the extra car for them as he had promised. Bedrolling out on the ground held little more appeal than sleeping under the same roof as the keen-eared old Scot, not that he planned to do a great deal of sleeping once he had Alexa in bed with him. He had spent the past week dreaming of her at night, thinking of her far too much during the day. That was a dangerous flaw for a man in his business. He decided the best way to deal with his obsession was to make love to her every night until the fascination wore off. Surely it would with time.

      
Meanwhile, he had enough railroad business on his plate to keep three men busy. MacKenzie wasn't going to like what he had to tell him about the raiders. He was deep in thought when a low feminine voiced called his name.

      
“Cain, it's about time you're back!” Roxanna scampered down the steep steps from the railcar and dashed over to where he was dismounting. She threw her arms around his neck, heedless of the gawking workers passing by. He smelled of sweat and horse. A week's growth of thick black beard scratched her face, but she did not care.

      
Cain inhaled the scent of lilacs and felt the sweet softness of her mouth as she feathered swift excited kisses across his face. He knew half of Laramie was watching them avidly, appalled at the slender blond woman throwing herself at a dirty breed. Damning them all, he crushed her in his arms and kissed her deeply, unleashing the hunger that had frustrated and angered him all week.

      
Let them look.

      
His mouth was fierce and possessive, slanted over hers, demanding her submission. She opened to his tongue, letting it plunge, greeting it with her own eagerly, until at last he broke off the heady caress and stared into her eyes. She ran her hands over his dusty wrinkled shirt, feeling that he was whole, safe and once more in her arms.

      
“I missed you,” he said in a low growl, the admission surprising him.

      
Roxanna beamed, forgetting all her fears, even the threat of Isobel Darby. “And I missed you,” she said shyly, realizing what a spectacle she had just made of herself. What must he think of her? “I was so worried when Grandfather told me you were tracking a bunch of renegades who'd killed a whole grading crew.” She could not restrain herself from running her hands down his arms and across his chest. “You're alive and in one piece.”

      
“I'm filthy and I need a shave,” he replied, trying to step back from the naked longing that shone from her eyes. Did his own reveal the same thing? “No time to clean up out on the trail,” he added, seeing the faint pink abrasions his whiskers had left on her delicate skin. “I've marked you.” His hand raised to touch her cheek before he could stop himself. She took it in both of hers, pressing the palm to her lips.

      
“In more ways than one, but I don't care if you're dirty—only that you're safe.” Still holding his hand, she turned back toward the train. “Come. We have a private car of our very own. It's not so opulent as Grandfather's, but I absolutely love it. I've been fixing it up while I was waiting for you to return. The striker can draw you a bath.”

      
Roxanna knew she was babbling. Nerves. The awful lonely days of waiting for his return and worrying that some renegade might shoot him in the back were over. If only the threat of Isobel Darby was over as well.

      
Tell him the truth.
Could she dare? If he learned of her deception, how would he react? In many ways he was as much of an enigma to her as she would be to him as Roxanna Fallon. She could not be sure if he cared for her enough to forgive her past. Perhaps with time she could bend him to her as their love grew. Her tumbling thoughts were interrupted when they reached the railcar and he scooped her up in his arms and climbed aboard. She clung to him as he carried her inside the door she had left standing ajar in her headlong rush to greet him.

      
He looked around the room, which had been furnished with a settee and a pair of chairs, various small tables and lamps. Lace curtains hung on the windows and heavy velvet Austrian shades were pulled up to admit the late afternoon light. Several Turkish prayer rugs were spread across the floor and a large bouquet of spring wildflowers filled a crystal bowl sitting on the round oak dining table in the far corner.

      
It was the most elegant place he had ever called home—and he owed it to his wife's grandfather. “Mighty fancy,” he said, placing her once more on her feet.

      
“Grandfather's cook prepares our meals and Li Chen brings them over and serves. The bedroom—” she paused, blushing furiously as she stood in the doorway “—er, is here,” she finished, lamely, “I'll have Li Chen prepare you a bath if you wish.” He was grinning at her! The return of this more familiar high-handed manner was welcome, but she still blushed to the roots of her hair.

      
“You do that. Tell him to bring lots of hot water. The first tubful will probably turn to mud before I'm done.” When she passed by him to ring the bell summoning the Chinese servant, he reached out one arm and pulled her back into his embrace. “After I get cleaned up...we'll see about that bedroom.”

      
His voice was low and intimate and its resonance made her tingle all the way down to the pit of her stomach. Memories of their wedding night had heated her dreams since he went away. She decided to seize every moment she was given with her husband and banish all thoughts of Isobel Darby. If—no—when the charade was over she would have memories no one could take away from her. “Take off your clothes...and I'll see you have all the...bath water you want.”

      
He lowered his mouth and kissed her again with the same pent-up hunger, then broke away. “If I take off my clothes, I'm, not sure I'll wait for a bath.”

      
“You don't have to wait, Cain,” she answered boldly.

      
He cursed, then said, “Fetch the damn bath if you don't want your satin bedcovers fowled with prairie dust.”

      
Roxanna' s hands curved around his broad shoulders, then moved up, pulling his head down to hers once more. “We can always buy new bedcovers,” she said against his mouth as he took her lips once more.

      
“You'll be...as smelly...as I am...by the time...we're through,” he said between kisses.

      
“Then I'll order...enough bathwater...for both of us,” she finally managed before he carried her into the bedroom, kicking the door closed with one foot. He let her slide down the length of his body, still pressing her close. Their hands were as busy as their mouths, pulling and unfastening, eager for the contact of bare flesh to bare flesh.

      
Finally they broke apart so he could fling the buckskin shirt over his head after she had tugged it loose from his waistband. The back of her dress gaped open where he had unhooked it and peeled it down her arms, shoving it lower. It pooled around her ankles with her petticoats. His eyes lit with appreciation. “I see you took my advice. No more corsets.”

      
“I'm a dutiful wife, Cain.” Her fingers worked clumsily on the unfamiliar belt buckle at his waist, then fumbled, hesitating at his fly.

      
He stood with his palms cupping her breasts, doing magical things to her nipples through the thin lawn of her chemise. Feeling her stop, he reached down and quickly opened his breeches. His sex, hot and turgid, sprang free. He lowered her hand toward it. When she clasped the pulsing staff, he let out a ragged oath and pulled her to him, burying his fists in her hair and molding his mouth to the curve where her neck and shoulder met.

      
Roxanna closed her eyes and reveled in the salty taste of perspiration on his skin combined with the faint aroma of horse and tobacco and man as she nuzzled his throat and ran her fingers through the damp springy hair on his chest.

      
“I told you I needed a bath,” he said with a husky laugh as he pulled her chemise off and his mouth closed over the hard aching point of her breast. His hands swept down over her ribs, fingers splayed, feeling the intense vibrations of her wildly beating heart, then moved lower to rip open the waistband of her pantalets and push them over her hips. “Kick them off,” he commanded, and she obeyed.