The Irish Devil (2 page)

Viola’s head came up as women’s voices reached her from the kitchen, hidden behind crisp gingham curtains unlike the heavy velvet drapes in the rest of the house. Eavesdropping was improper, of course, but it would be interesting to hear what Mrs. Smith’s girls said when they thought no one else was around.

“So when do you think she’ll wake up?” a girl asked.

“Put a dollar on six o’clock, Sally,” Mrs. Smith’s cook drawled, “and you should win the pool.”

Viola bit her lip at the sum, which probably meant little to the women inside.

“Sleep fourteen or sixteen hours? After sharing one man with another girl? Not a chance,” Sally objected.

“Ever spend a night with Donovan? No? Pearl often sleeps ’til midnight the next day. And no tellin’ how long Fannie’ll sleep. She ain’t used to the likes of him,” Lily Mae chuckled, her Texas drawl deepening and thickening.

William Donovan? Were they talking about the same man who owned Donovan & Sons, named for heirs he didn’t have yet? The big freighting house that hauled supplies into Rio Piedras, coming through no matter what depredations the Apaches wreaked?

He had the heart-stopping masculine beauty of a Renaissance angel with his brilliant blue eyes, raven hair, and clean-shaven face, unusual among so many men who grew whiskers for fashion or convenience. Those attractions were combined with more than six feet of lean strength that could shred a rattler with his whip for threatening a child—after which he’d coax the little one into peals of laughter.

But beauty and money couldn’t make a woman sleep for nearly a full day. So he must have some talents in the bedroom that brought sweet pleasure and ease to his partner.

Viola pondered what those skills could possibly be and came up blank. Edward had been drunk when they’d married and he’d consumed still more whisky after the ceremony. The wedding night hadn’t occurred for another three days and had been marked by Edward’s grunting, plus a great deal of blood on the sheets. She’d heard hints that some men did more during carnal encounters, but neither gossip nor her own imagination could account for Lily Mae’s rich purr.

Perhaps he gave good massages. She smothered a chuckle at the ridiculous notion of a subservient William Donovan, humbly asking if madame would care for a little more attention to her knotted shoulders.

“Maybe you’re right. I’ll put a dollar on six o’clock,” Sally said grudgingly.

Twelve hours or more after the man left? Viola’s fingers had played pleasant games under the covers before sleeping. But she’d never overslept afterwards. She lifted her hand to knock but froze when Sally spoke again.

“Still, I don’t know why he’s never chosen me,” Sally whined.

Lily Mae snorted rudely. “Honey, you lap up liquor like a fired cowhand. Donovan won’t have anyone who indulges.”

“Why, that’s plumb crazy! Everyone drinks, gin or whisky or laudanum or—”

“He don’t and he won’t dally with those what do,” Lily Mae said flatly. “If he’s in town, Pearl’s sober as a corpse ’til she’s sure who’s warmin’ his bed.”

If William Donovan touched only women who stayed sober then he couldn’t have many liaisons, especially with so few women of easy virtue in this little town.

“Is that how she does it?” Sally mused.

“Yup. Donovan comes here four, maybe five times a week when he’s in town.”

Five times a week? Mother had compared men to volcanoes, prone to explode into orgies of adultery, rape, and physical violence. Or even homosexual embraces, unless granted regular sexual congress. But five times a week was more than Vesuvian; it was as impossible to imagine as washing laundry while staying totally dry. Still, Viola’s ears stayed pricked for more gossip.

“’Most always, she’s the only girl who’s sober. An’ he’s a damn fine tipper.”

“How much?” Sally demanded, avarice sharpening her voice.

“Ten dollars a night, maybe more, ’sides what he pays Mrs. Smith. Depends on what he has in mind.”

“Heard tell he has some strange ways…” Sally’s voice trailed off, inviting confidences.

“He can be mighty odd. Likes to wear them French letters when he’s ridin’ a woman. Still, it’s easy ’nough for Pearl to forgive him.”

What on earth was a French letter? A piece of stationery wrapped around his privates? No, it couldn’t be that; paper wouldn’t last two seconds after a man started grunting and shoving, although a letter might provide something else for the woman to think about.

“For ten bucks, he could dress up as a Red Indian,” Sally snorted.

“And Pearl always says a night with him is fine as dollar cotton.” The purr was back in Lily Mae’s voice. Viola shifted uncomfortably at the sound. The images it evoked caught her breath and sent a wet heat prowling through her core. Did Pearl truly find such frequent masculine attentions enjoyable, instead of boring?

Sally whistled. “Maybe I should take up temperance then.”

Lily Mae snickered. “When pigs fly!”

Viola yanked her wits back from contemplating how much money William Donovan spent at Mrs. Smith’s, how fast the same sum would release her to a new life—and just what he did with those girls in private.

She knocked loudly and waited. Inside, Lily Mae and Sally fell silent before Lily Mae’s ponderous steps sounded. She opened the door, her crisp white apron and scarlet turban as pristine as ever, and smiled at Viola. “Good morning, Mrs. Ross. Please come in.”

“Thank you, Lily Mae,” Viola accepted and stepped inside. The kitchen was brilliantly white with sun streaming in through the gingham curtains and across the embroidered tablecloth. It was a big kitchen with an immense iron stove, suitable for cooking the fanciest meal or feeding Mrs. Smith’s half dozen “young ladies” every day.

Blond Sally smiled at Viola from the table, her flowered silk robes drooping over her plump body. A bruise was barely visible on the inside of one breast. She tightened the robe’s sash and poured more coffee into her cup, masking the smell of whisky.

“Good morning, Sally.” Viola nodded politely, settled the basket more comfortably on her hip, and turned back to Lily Mae.

“How’s Mrs. Watson this morning?” Lily Mae asked.

“Saying good-bye to Mr. Jones. He leaves for Colorado today in that big wagon train Reverend Chambers is leading,” Viola answered, keeping her eyes averted from the baker’s rack and its burden of fresh-baked pies. At least one of them had to be apple and another one smelled like a chess pie, her childhood favorite. “I was able to remove the wine stain from the French corset,” she remarked to stop herself from drooling.

“Splendid.” Lily Mae beamed, her dusky face splitting into a grin. “Mrs. Smith will be mighty happy that she won’t have to replace one of them fancy rigs. Just put that big basket down on that table over yonder.”

Viola obeyed, trying not to sniff the mouthwatering aroma of biscuits and red-eye gravy from the stove. She turned around only to have Lily Mae place a cup in her hand.

“Have some coffee while I fetch last night’s laundry.”

“Thank you.” Viola accepted it gratefully but stiffened when Lily Mae held out a scone. She’d never stooped to accepting charity and wouldn’t start now.

“And tell me what you think of these fancy biscuits. I’m playing with candied ginger to match the raisins.”

Viola hesitated. “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.” Her stomach betrayed her with a growl. She flushed but kept her head high, daring anyone to say something about it.

Lily Mae smiled at her and put the plate directly into Viola’s hand. “I’d sure appreciate your thoughts. It’s a new recipe and I want to make sure they’re suitable for fine company. Now you just sit down right here.”

“Thank you.” Viola accepted the face-saving excuse and joined Sally. She bit into the scone slowly, savoring its buttery richness as she tried not to gulp.

“You sure look all combed and curried in that blue dress, Mrs. Ross,” Lily Mae offered as she returned with a basket of laundry and a small pouch of coins.

Yes, it almost gives me some curves.
Viola’s mouth twitched but she answered simply, “Thank you. Mrs. Watson took it in for me and wanted me to wear it this morning, given the fine weather.”

“Any new proposals lately? I had two last night,” asked Sally, one of the most notorious gossips in town. Word had it that she could retell any fight at any saloon before the sheriff managed to arrive.

“Six early last week, all from newcomers, and none since. Perhaps word is finally getting around that I won’t remarry.” The scone was really quite good.

“Or that you’re still waitin’ for mournin’ to end so’s you can wed the right fellow,” Lily Mae drawled, adding a generous splash of cream to her coffee as she settled down at the sunny table.

“That’s ridiculous! It’s been six months since Mr. Ross died. Even my grandmother would have ended full mourning by now,” Viola protested.

The other women shared a look before Lily Mae spoke in an altogether different tone. “Mighty powerful, mighty respectable man’s been putting it about. Says you’ll marry him when the time is right.”

Viola’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. Lennox is saying that?”

Sally nodded vehemently while Lily Mae answered, “Yes, ma’am. Been very insistent about it, too.”

“So much so, other men don’t question him,” Viola said slowly.

Thunder crashed in her memory. It had been a dark night, some six months ago, lit only by lightning bolts from the coming storm. She’d been walking home from Maggie’s hut and spotted Lennox washing in the water trough beside the livery stable. She shivered, remembering how he’d scrubbed at the dark stains on his white shirt, his face cold and intent in a flash of green light. She’d doubled back to avoid him, taking another route to her home.

“If Lennox crows, then it’s daylight in Rio Piedras,” Lily Mae said softly.

Viola’s eyes flashed up and met Lily Mae’s. She swallowed at the bitter knowledge and understanding there.

A deep breath brought enough composure to voice her decision. “It doesn’t matter what the men here say or do, since I won’t marry any of them. I’ve refused Paul Lennox two dozen times and I’ll refuse him two hundred times more.”

She took a swallow of coffee and concentrated on the scone. It tasted like dust now.

“Sure? Maybe you’ll meet a man who’s too good to refuse,” suggested Sally.

Viola swirled her coffee for a moment before answering, watching the fine grounds chase each other on the surface. “I’ll not marry any man in Rio Piedras, especially not one as consumed with gold fever as Paul Lennox.”

“Not all men are like that,” Sally protested.

“Name me one man in this town who doesn’t see women as something to make hunting gold or silver easier,” Viola flung back.

Sally opened her mouth, but closed it when Lily Mae lifted an eyebrow. Silence grew and stretched around the sunny room.

“’Nother biscuit, Mrs. Ross?” Sally asked, her tone shifting the gathering into a ladies’ tea rather than a bitter recital of men’s shortcomings. “Would you believe Pearl actually asked to take the recipe with her when she leaves tomorrow?”

Viola fed the last crumbs of her scone to Jake as she left. Lily Mae’s baking was excellent but this particular example hadn’t regained its original attraction.

She weighed the pouch in her hand thoughtfully before slipping it into her pocket. It was heavier than the promised one dollar tip—perhaps it was two dollars? She sent up a quick prayer of thanks. Now she could pay for groceries. And she’d give a few pennies to Padre Francisco, the only remaining man of God here, to help with his stray animals.

She danced a little quickstep of delight as she went down the stairs into the yard.

Sally’s voice reached Viola just as she opened the gate. “Maybe if I only drank two glasses of wine, Donovan would choose me.”

Lily Mae’s laughter rang out and Viola closed the gate firmly, lifting the basket to her shoulder. Surely the two women were stretching the truth for their own amusement. Everything she knew from marriage said no one man’s attentions could leave one woman, let alone two, sleeping for half a day. But five times a week did sound rather intriguing.

One last question teased her mind as she walked off, idly whistling a Mozart minuet. Could a woman have lusts as strong as a man’s?

W
illiam’s razor moved smoothly over his cheek in the familiar ritual, a welcome relief after his rude awakening. Shaving always comforted him as it evoked memories of his family. His father had taught him the art in a shanty beside the Cobh of Cork, where hot water meant the room was warm enough for his father’s work as a forger.

He’d removed all traces of his native Gaelic as a teenager, thus eliminating the easiest target of anti-Irish prejudice. He’d gained first an upper-crust English accent then a western drawl, both fluent enough to gain immediate acceptance. But he still remembered his origins every time he laid a razor against his cheek.

Abraham Chang waited behind him with a white towel draped over his arm, tall for a Chinese but just as impassive as folklore dictated for his race. He’d changed little in the fifteen years they’d known each other. The biggest differences now were the houseman’s somber black suit and neatly trimmed hair he sported, in lieu of the tong enforcer’s brilliant silks and long queue.

The familiar ritual soothed William until he slipped back into last night’s dream. The faerie queen had featured in his earliest fantasies, always a nymph-like woman with blue eyes and moonbeam hair. His mouth quirked slightly as he recalled some of those dreams, in which an uncommonly brave and strong lad had found the lovely lady at his mercy in either an ancient oak forest or on a grassy knoll. This latest episode had been set amidst the woods wherein he’d captured her, thus setting her at his mercy.

He smiled slightly and tilted his head back to catch the underside of his jaw. Suddenly the dream’s ending flashed back as he rhythmically scraped bristles.

His cock delved deep and hard and fast, urged on by her body’s rhythmic pulses as she arched ecstatically under him. She cried out, her sweet curves half hidden beneath his net, as her climax tightened her around him. Her head flung back and her blue eyes, now almost purple with passion, flew open. They matched the pure indigo of a crocus flower, the color of the twilight sky above a mountain range.

Viola Ross lay under him, shuddering in pleasure from his attentions.

Fingers suddenly locked around his wrist like an iron vise. Abraham’s eyes met his in the mirror for a moment, both pairs wide with shock as crimson welled up over the sharp blade and ran down William’s throat. After a long moment, William carefully shifted the razor away from his skin until he could take first one free breath, then another.

Abraham released his hand and began to smoothly mop up the blood, face impassive once more.

He would have cut his own throat, if not for Abraham’s speedy reaction.

But sweet singing Jesus, carnal relations with Viola?

William peeled out of his once white undervest, moving in short jerks. A dream of Viola Ross, by all the saints. A fancy less likely to come true could hardly be imagined. He wrenched his mind back to reality.

“Thank you for saving my life.” His voice rasped against the stillness.

“An honor, sir, to repay at least part of the debt I owe.” Abraham bowed deeply and William nodded, unwilling to start the old argument.

A silent but more watchful Abraham produced another undervest. William accepted it but refused the proffered crisp white summer shirt. “Red flannel, Abraham. We’re loading Army wagons today.”

“Excellent choice, sir.”

William raised an eyebrow and Abraham elaborated.

“Red is the color of prosperity, good fortune, and wealth in my country.”

“A noble sentiment, Abraham. But I’ll wear it to remind myself of who I truly am: teamster, wagonmaster, and child of Ireland.” And he’d continue to maintain his distance from aristocratic women who kept even their hems away from poor Irish lads.

“It takes a wise man to know himself so well,” Abraham murmured. William chose to accept the phrase as a proverb, not a compliment.

He finally finished dressing, careful to keep his mind away from vagrant fantasies. Fortified by one of Sarah Chang’s excellent omelets and eager for the distraction of hard work, he headed for his freight depot.

He passed a few blocks of shops, most with a warning sign in their windows: “Irish Need Not Apply.” His mouth tightened briefly at the familiar sight. Even in this isolated town, where most of the miners were Irish, they still weren’t welcome to hold jobs in more settled firms, such as a general store or bank.

Just before reaching the depot, a buckboard wagon rolled past, carrying a man and woman. The man lifted his hat to William, whose senses immediately came to full alert. Charlie Jones and Maggie Watson sat side by side, heading out of town.

Why wasn’t Viola Ross chaperoning Maggie Watson, given Maggie’s insistence on following all of society’s rules?

“Good morning, Jones. Mrs. Watson,” William greeted them.

The two nodded back, Jones beaming at him while Maggie bobbed her head. “Good morning, Mr. Donovan,” she trilled in her usual fluttery style.

“Hoped we’d see you, Donovan, so I could share the good news,” Jones boomed. “Maggie became my wife this morning.”

“Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Jones. Good fortune to both of you,” William returned. What the devil was going on here? It was damned early in the day for a wedding. And why was Viola Ross delivering laundry, rather than celebrating with them? “May I ask who your supporters were at the happy occasion, that I might lift a glass with them? Mrs. Ross, perhaps?”

Maggie blinked rapidly and began to stutter. Jones spoke up quickly, his eyes sliding away from William’s.

“Oh, no, no, Mrs. Ross went out on some business. We’re traveling with Reverend Chambers’s wagon train as far as Tucson, so we couldn’t wait for her return. Can’t waste time sitting around when there’s Apaches to dodge.”

William considered Maggie’s nervousness and the strangely empty buckboard. Was it her usual discomfort around Irishmen or something else? The wagon was only lightly loaded, not what he’d expect of a woman who co-owned a small business.

“Do you need help shipping Mrs. Jones’s belongings to Colorado?” William probed. “I could send one of my men over to pack them up.”

“No, no!” Jones objected, glaring like a barnyard cat surrounded by hungry dogs. “Sold everything this morning so she’d have a fresh start. Washtub, washboard, all of it. A mouse wouldn’t find anything at that hut.”

“What about Mrs. Ross’s belongings?” William demanded, going icy cold at the image. “Shouldn’t they be guarded until she returns?”

Jones shifted slightly on the wagon seat in a move that could free up his gun. It also sent the old prefight stillness over William, who was well aware any of his weapons could kill Jones before the other’s gun cleared leather. Maggie glanced apprehensively from one man to the other and finally uttered a coherent sentence.

“There’s nothing left, Mr. Donovan. It took everything I could find to pay off Mr. Watson’s debts. Besides”—she began to stammer under William’s glare—“Viola had sold so much when Mr. Ross died that there wasn’t hardly anything left. And she’s going to marry Mr. Lennox anyway, so it doesn’t much matter, don’t you agree?”

William took a step toward her but brought himself to an abrupt halt. Maggie shrank back against Jones, shaking.

“Don’t you dare look at my wife that way,” Jones blustered, openly reaching for his Colt.

William simply looked at the other man, whose fingers quickly returned to the reins. The Irishman smiled mirthlessly then stepped back from the wagon.

“You’d best be moving on then, Jones. Wouldn’t want the little woman to come to any harm.”

Jones started to lift the reins but William spoke again.

“Our current deal runs out in June. It won’t be renewed.”

“What! But you’re the only freighter who’ll haul ore from my mine, high up as it is.”

William shrugged.

“I’ll double your pay.”

“There’s plenty of money to be made elsewhere with honorable men.” He ignored the ghosts warning of cruel hunger coming to anyone who refused a profit.

“He’ll be ruined!” Maggie gasped.

“You should have considered that before you stole a good woman’s life and business. Good day.” He touched his fingers to his hat in a mocking salute and walked on to his freight depot, the one place he could be sure of controlling matters.

The big depot was full of his men preparing to send out the next wagon train of military supplies. Sentries patrolled the rooftops against an Apache attack, backed by others in the compound’s watchtowers. Some men loaded barrels, while others tied down tarpaulins over heavily laden wagons. The activity spilled out from the depot’s yard and corrals onto the flat desert, where the supply train would assemble.

Men cleaned and oiled the heavy chains that would link wheels together, thus forming the wagons into an almost unbreakable barricade against attack. Every man had a rifle close at hand, of course.

Hammering rose from the wheelwright’s and blacksmith’s shops. Both shops contained the special equipment needed for dealing with the sixteen-foot Murphy wagons, like the special forge and crane to handle the seven-foot iron wheels.

Chickens clucked happily in their crates as they devoured their morning’s grain. Quiet reigned in a side yard behind rough mud-brick walls and a railed gate, where two men carefully unloaded barrels of gunpowder.

The corrals were full of mules, twelve to twenty for every tandem hitch of two or three big Murphy wagons. A few had drifted to the rails to watch the teamsters’ bustling busyness, while the rest drowsed or enjoyed the morning’s first alfalfa.

Soon enough, William was happily planning next week’s wagon train for the new fort. He checked the animals first, accompanied by his foreman.

“Glad you arrived early,” Morgan Evans observed as they headed into the barn and its reassuring bustle of stock being groomed and prepared for the trail. “We’ll need you and all the firm’s best men to see Fort McMillan equipped. Even if we work Sundays.”

“Mostly luck,” William disclaimed. “Smooth steamship voyage out of San Francisco, plus we didn’t sight a single Apache between here and Fort Yuma.”

Morgan snorted. “Or Cochise didn’t want to take you on again. Good reputation to carry on that road.”

William glanced at the notoriously calm younger man. An Apache ambush seldom caused more than a yawn from this aristocratic veteran of Forrest’s cavalry. So what was Morgan truly worried about?

He paused to greet Saladin, his big gray stallion, who’d poked his head over his stall’s door. He needed to hear more of what had happened since his last trip to Rio Piedras seven months ago. “Quiet in town lately?”

“Cave-in last month killed six men.” Morgan fed a carrot to his steady Indian pony as William crooned endearments to the fastest horse in the territory. “Tregarron resigned and took the last Cornish miners with him.”

“Bloody damn. Lack of shoring?” The stallion’s ears flicked toward William. He nudged his human’s shoulder in an unmistakable demand.

“How’d you guess?”

“Lennox hasn’t been paying as much for inbound freight. Timber’s the heaviest cargo, now the stamp mill’s running.” William began to feed Saladin a handful of peppermints.

“Cheap bastard.” Morgan’s three syllables were an indictment. “Most of the old miners are gone now. It’s too dangerous to mine their own claims and they won’t work for Lennox.”

“Cochise that busy?”

“Very. Killed Claiborne last week, not two miles out of town on the old road.” In silent accord, the two men moved to look at the horses outside.

“Young fool must have been looking for the German’s buried gold,” William observed, searching for Tennessee, his most experienced lead mule.

“Probably. But an Apache bullet’s a quicker death than drowning in a flash flood, as Mueller did.” Morgan slipped into the corral and carefully brought a big chestnut forward for inspection.

William grunted agreement then turned to more important matters. “Tenn’s better than I’d hoped from your description but we can’t use him for the next train. It’ll be eight days, maybe nine, before he’s up to another run. We could hitch Blackie with Waffles instead.”

“Or use another pair as leaders for the ammunition wagon,” Morgan offered in his soft Mississippi voice, bringing Tennessee to a halt before William.

“Who’d you have in mind?” William asked, just as a horse and buggy turned into the yard from the street. The fancy buggy and high-stepping mare were as out of place in the depot as a dowager’s diamond necklace in a saloon. Lennox must have brought a new toy from back East.

“I’ll hitch them so you can see them work together. Lennox will want to talk to you, now that you’re here,” Morgan murmured and faded away. He avoided contact with Lennox as much as possible, as did most war veterans. William lifted an eyebrow but said nothing as he turned to meet his caller.

Paul Lennox pulled the buggy to a stop before the depot’s office. He quickly looped the mare’s reins over the rail as he looked around for William. A keg of beans thudded to the ground in the yard beyond, making his horse toss up her head in alarm. Lennox paid no attention to her fretfulness as he headed toward his quarry, twirling his ever present walking stick.