A Fire in the Blood (19 page)

      
Mathis followed, irritated by her jumpiness. He stood behind her, letting his hands rest lightly on her shoulders. "I've been a patient man, Lissa. So has your father, but you're a woman grown now and you have serious responsibilities as Marcus's only heir."

      
His touch felt leaden to her. "I'm daily reminded of that, Lemuel," she said somberly.

      
Just as she was about to twist away from beneath his hands, Jess rode past, headed toward the bunk- house. Her pulse raced, and her blood thrummed crazily through her whole body just watching the graceful way he swung his long leg over Blaze's back and dismounted. Would Lemuel notice?

      
"Well, I see that breed gunman made it back from Cheyenne after his little assignation," he said with annoyance.

      
"Assignation?" Her voice was too sharp.

      
Mathis colored and coughed discreetly. "I—er, I only meant that I saw the ruffian dallying with one of the scarlet poppies at the Royale Music Hall this afternoon as I left town to come here. For the handsome sum your father pays him, the least he could do is restrict his leisure activities to the time after he's dealt with these rustlers," he added.

      
For a hysterical instant Lissa almost blurted out that Jesse Robbins's leisure activity yesterday had been with her! "Who was the entertainer? Perhaps he was pursuing information about the rustling." Her words sounded hollow even to her ears.

      
"I doubt that pretty little Mexican tart Camella Alvarez has anything to do with the rustlers," he said drily.

      
"If you'll excuse me, Lemuel, I must see if Germaine needs any assistance in the kitchen." She did not wait for his reply but turned away from him before he could see the tears threatening to overflow. She walked with a stiff spine from the room, trying her damnedest to be sedate and regal, a lady, just as they had taught her at Miss Jefferson's Academy.

      
Dinner that evening was a wretched affair for Lissa, sitting between Lemuel and her father, listening to their conversation and making appropriate comments, attempting to hide her misery behind a facade of smiles. When they discussed Jesse Robbins and the rustling, she wanted to run from the room but knew she must sit and endure it.

      
"Tomorrow I'm riding to the roundup over on Evers's east range, Princess. Would you like to go with me?" Marcus asked as Germaine served him a flaky slice of freshly baked gooseberry pie.

      
Lissa shoved her pie about on her plate, forcing down a few bites lest her lack of appetite be further remarked upon. "Yes, Papa, that would be fine."

      
"Good. We'll set out early. Take that worthless hound with us. Let him eat Vinegar out of supplies. I'm afraid Germaine is out of patience with him."

      
Lissa survived the rest of the meal, then pleaded that her headache was growing worse and asked to be excused. A huffy, disappointed Lemuel Mathis bade her good night and reminded her rather pointedly that he would be her escort for the gala dance on Saturday, which would be held at J Bar.

      
After Lissa retired, she kept waking up with the sheets bunched around her legs where she had tangled them in her restless thrashing. The night was warm and sultry, with barely any breeze stirring. Visions of Jess with that Mexican harlot Camella filled her dreams—Jess's lean, dark body entwined with the raven-haired woman's, doing to Camella the same exquisite, breathtaking things he had done to her.

      
When morning came, she had dark circles beneath her eyes and felt exhausted. "Damn if I'll let him see me this way, grieving with jealousy over his philandering." She splashed cool water on her face, then soaked a towel and made a compress to take away the puffiness and discoloration. She brushed her hair and plaited it, then used the small cask of cosmetics she kept hidden from her father and Germaine. After a faint touch of powder beneath her eyes, a daub of rouge on her lips, and a hint of kohl on her eyelids, she looked considerably better. She selected a yellow silk blouse to go with her tan riding skirt.

      
When she walked down to the stables with Cormac loping at her side, Jess was there talking with Marcus. Hearing her and her companion approach, he turned and tipped his hat politely. His warm, silvery gaze sent sparks tingling through her as she walked regally past him with a curt, "Good morning."

      
Luke Deevers came up to Marcus with a question just as they were mounting up, leaving Jess to assist her. Much as she did not want his hands on her, there was nothing she could do without causing a scene.

      
"Allow me, Miss Jacobson," he offered, holding her pinto steady. His movements were cool and proper, but a current of raw sexual energy charged the air as he stood so near her.

      
Hurt and anger flared in her eyes before she could mask her reaction when his hands touched her waist. He lifted her up onto the saddle, and she cursed his effect on her. All she had wanted to do was show him that she did not care a fig for him. Instead she was trembling, on the verge of tears. Gritting her teeth, she regained control of her roiling emotions before speaking. "Thank you, Mr. Robbins," she said stiffly, shrugging off his touch.

      
"You're welcome, Princess," he replied in a soft, insolent voice that no one else could hear. So, now that she had time to reconsider, her highness had decided that he was beneath her after all. He should have been relieved. Wasn't that what he had wanted? But instead he felt hurt and anger, oddly mixed with chilling desolation, as if something bright and precious had been taken from him.

      
Damn, I should've accepted Cammie's offer yesterday
.

      
The ride to the roundup camp was brief and accomplished with little conversation. Marcus made a few passing remarks to her about the dance, and he and Jess exchanged thoughts about the plans to entrap the rustlers. Lissa stared straight ahead, watching Cormac's antics as he ran effortlessly across the flat, open grasslands.

      
As soon as the hound saw Vinegar Joe's chuck wagon on the horizon, he headed straight for it at a run. Remembering his penchant for trouble around food, she decided that this was as good an excuse as any to escape the disturbing presence of the gunman.

      
"I'm going to catch up with Cormac before he gets a barrel full of buckshot from Vinegar," she yelled at her father as she kneed Little Bit into a gallop.

Chapter Eleven

      
Lissa was too late. By the time she approached the roundup camp, pandemonium had already erupted. Vinegar's arthritic little body moved with surprising alacrity as he chased Cormac and another, smaller black-and-white mutt through the camp, swinging a big straw broom in the dogs' wake. He was enraged enough to chew the sight off a sixgun.

      
"Yew come back here with my quail, yew thievin' sons of bitches, afore I draw 'nough blood from yew ta paint a house!" The smaller culprit was in the lead, with the big wolfhound right on his tail.

      
Cormac lunged away from a mighty swipe of the broom and almost caught up to Pepper, Moss's dog, who was dragging a frayed rope with several braces of quail attached to it.

      
"I been aging them birds special fer two weeks. They's jist 'bout tender, gawddammit!"

      
One dead bird stuck out of the smaller dog's mouth, which was smeared with reddish-brown feathers. Just as they both careened around the corner of the chuck wagon, Vinegar's broom connected with Cormac's rump, causing him to break stride. One huge paw stepped on the rope Pepper was dragging. The shaggy mut whipped his head around, which caused the rope of quail to fly into a wire basket filled with eggs. The rope caught on the basket and it overturned, leaving a trail of broken shells and glistening yolks smeared across the dusty ground. The big wolfhound churned through the mess, enjoying the chase.

      
Vinegar slid in the broken eggs and threw down his broom. Seizing an iron skillet, he hurled it at the culprits. The skillet missed its mark and instead shattered a large crock of sorghum sitting on a shelf at the opposite side of the tarpaulin that shaded the cook's table. The sticky syrup flew in all directions, almost coating Pepper, Cormac, and the stolen quail.

      
As the shrieking little cook seized a big iron ladle and brandished it. Pepper bounded from beneath the canvas and ran around Vinegar's bubbling pot of stew. Cormac headed him off by circling the cauldron from the opposite side. A crowd of hands had gathered by this time, hooting, cheering, and making bets on whether Pepper and Cormac would escape with the prize, or Vinegar Joe reclaim it.

      
"Vinegar's madder 'n a rained-on rooster," Rob Ostler said to Lissa as she dismounted.

      
Her eyes round with horror, she called to both dogs. Pepper obeyed no one but Moss, who was not in camp. The noise was so great that even Cormac, who normally heeded Lissa's commands, could not hear her over the din.

      
"Betcha five dollars he gets them birds back," another called out to Ostler.

      
Cormac almost collided with Pepper as he snapped at one of the dangling quail. His big teeth sank into the bird and the rope. A tug of war ensued until Vinegar, wielding the iron ladle and a long barbecue fork, alternately swung and poked at the larger target, the wolfhound.

      
Cormac let out a muffled woof as the fork pierced his shaggy brindled rump, then took off. Since Pepper was holding the other end of rope at the opposite side of the fire, the unfortunate result was that the huge pot overturned onto the ground, spilling meat and gravy in a giant puddle. The little cook did a yelping dance as boiling chunks of beef and sauce enveloped his boots and splashed onto the grimy white apron he wore. Jumping as high as a Pecos twister, he hopped out of the mess, still cursing the dogs and searching for another weapon.

      
By this time the men, realizing that their dinner had just been demolished, began to view the cook's plight in a somewhat more sympathetic light. When the pair of felons ran toward the nearby cawy, a cry went up.

      
"Watch them horses!"

      
"Oh, shit!"

      
"Cormac! I'll put you on bread and water for a year!

      
"Will ya lookit that!"

      
The cawy was contained in a makeshift corral of flimsy posts with rope strung between them. Pepper dashed beneath the rope, but Cormac ran smack into it, toppling the posts. The two thrashing dogs sent the neighing, prancing horses into a mad stampede. Men on foot cursed and dodged flying hooves, then raced for their saddled horses while those already mounted seized their ketch ropes and gave chase in a vain attempt to head off the stampede.

      
By this time, Vinegar was digging through the chest strapped on the side of the wagon like a crazed chipmunk searching for acorns, screeching imprecations at the dogs. The objects of his wrath avoided the stampeding horses by turning back to the security of the wagon and its tent. Now Cormac had the rope of birds and Pepper was chasing him. As they ran beneath the canvas, Cormac bumped one of the support poles holding the tarpaulin up. Following hard on his heels, Pepper did likewise and the heavy canvas fell with a great whoosh that toppled over the two sets of open shelves filled with tin plates, cups, and heavy crockery.

      
Vinegar let out another volley of oaths that could be heard even over the clattering crash. Lissa held her hands over her ears as the scene unfolded before her horrified eyes. The cook yanked an ancient shotgun free from the tangled mess of tools in the chest and raised it in the general direction of the canvas. Two writhing lumps, one very large, one smaller, thrashed beneath the tarpaulin, trying to scratch their way to freedom.

      
"No, Vinegar, don't shoot!" Lissa yelled as she ran toward the cook, who was pulling back the hammer.

      
She grabbed the gun just as he fired, knocking his aim awry. The recoil of the gun sent both the skinny little cook and Lissa tumbling to the ground.

      
A strange, grayish-white cloud came billowing out from beneath the canvas with the force of a tornado wind. The spectators began to cough and rub their eyes as a fine white dust settled on them. Lissa stumbled to the edge of the canvas and pulled it back, freeing the prisoners, who had at last relinquished their prize quail.

      
"Oh, Cormac, Pepper, look at you!" she gasped in dismay while another fit of coughing seized her.

      
"What the hell's going on here?" Marcus bellowed as two white dogs, severely chastened, with tails between their legs, cowered behind Lissa.

      
Jacobson dismounted while Jess sat astride Blaze, looking down on the wreckage with amusement. When his eyes swept over Lissa's flour-coated hair and sticky hands, she reddened in mortification and quickly looked away.

      
Blinking her lashes, she rubbed Cormac's head. Her fingers stuck in his fur. "It's flour," she said inanely, knowing she was blushing and hating herself for it. "Vinegar was trying to shoot them, and he hit the flour sack instead, underneath the canvas. It just sort of exploded all over them . . . and us," she added, looking sheepishly down at her ruined clothes and boots. So much for dressing up to impress that philandering gunman!

      
To add insult to her injury, Cormac shook himself, sending more flour, along with droplets of drool, spraying over her.