Ana Leigh (2 page)

Chapter 2

R
ose was exhausted. There had been forty customers for dinner and only thirty minutes to feed them.

One of the many reasons for the success of the Harvey restaurants was that the meals were ordered in advance on the train and wired ahead, so by the time the train pulled into the depot, the food was prepared and waiting.

Each of the girls had a table of eight and every passenger received a full-course dinner. Normally there would be additional help to fill water glasses and serve the beverages, but since Brimstone was in an experimental stage the only staff was Everett Billings, five Harvey Girls, and a French couple who did the cooking. Although superb chefs, the couple could not speak English; Billings was the only one who could communicate with them in a halting French. They were a far cry from Yen Cheng, the volatile Chinese cook at the New Mexico Harvey House. Rose couldn’t help smiling, remembering those days.

But despite the limited personnel, by the time the train departed thirty minutes after arrival, each satisfied customer had been served a cup of hot creamed potato-and-leek soup, a crisp salad of seasoned lettuce leaves garnished with anchovies and strips of red peppers, a succulent beef fillet covered with a
pâté de foi gras
, tiny potatoes boiled in their skins, scalloped onions, and their choice of either meringue shells filled with chocolate truffles or a slice of freshly baked apple pie. Almost all the women had opted for the meringue shells, and the men the apple pie. The offered beverages had been coffee or tea, and those who wished had been served a glass of fine claret as well.

It was after nine o’clock by the time the last piece of crystal and china had been washed and the kettles scrubbed and put away. All had returned to their rented rooms except for Rose and Everett Billings.

Anxious to be on his way, Billings said, “If you have no objection, Miss Dubois, I’ll leave now. I’ve already missed the start of the Bible study.”

“Go right ahead, Mr. Billings,” Rose said.

“I hate to leave you alone,” he replied, putting on his hat. “Particularly since your earlier confrontation with those unpleasant men. Are you sure you don’t want me to remain?”

“Really, it’s not necessary. I’m almost through here, and it’s just a short walk to the boardinghouse.”

“Well, I’ve locked the kitchen door, so be sure and lock the front one when you leave. Good night, Miss Dubois.”

“Good night, Mr. Billings.”

Rose smiled as the manager departed. Billings was a nice man, but too timid for Brimstone—at least until the town became more civilized. But even though the town revolted her, Rose loved the rugged beauty of the land itself. She only wished she could find the rich husband she sought. She could put up with ruggedness as long as there were a few luxuries thrown in—and some respectability.

Born in the slums of New Orleans, Rose had lost her mother early and had been raised by a father who’d constantly been in and out of jail for drunkenness and petty crimes. She’d become streetwise and had learned to survive in the world she moved in. But she wanted a better life.

Back east she could have had the luxury she yearned for, but with her background, the most she could hope for from a rich man would have been an “arrangement.” Here, because of the scarcity of women and the desire for heirs, the men—rich or poor alike—offered marriage. They weren’t as critical of a woman’s background. And because of the high moral standards Fred Harvey imposed, Harvey Girls were on the top of that preference list.

Rose couldn’t have bluffed her way through the Harvey training if it hadn’t been for Emily Lawrence, who had taught her the behavior expected of a lady. The thought made her remember the letter in her pocket that she’d received that day from Emily. Between the dinner rush and cleaning up, she hadn’t had time to read it. Now, anxious to get back to her room to open the letter, she hurriedly finished folding the last napkin for the morning’s breakfast rush.

The bell above the door jingled as she started to turn down the last lamp. “Sorry, we’re closed,” she called out. “Cook’s gone home.”

“Who cares about the cook? We have some unfinished business.”

A shiver rippled her spine as she recognized the voice. Pivoting, she saw him leaning back against the door, his arms folded across his chest. Cast in shadow, he appeared more dangerous than ever. Definitely more dangerous.

“What unfinished business can we possibly have?”

“A piece of pie.”

“I’m afraid you’re too late, cowboy; it’s all gone. I’m just closing . . . Where are you going?” she asked abruptly when he walked past her and shoved the kitchen door open. “Kindly leave,” she demanded, following him.

Ignoring her, he lit a lamp, then hunkered down and peered into the icebox. Turning his head, he gave her a reproachful glance. “Didn’t your momma warn you that lying can get you into trouble, Redhead?” He pulled out a pie tin with half a pie remaining. “Care to join me?”

“Just make yourself at home,” she sniffed, and stalked out of the room.

He followed, carrying the tin, and forked a bite of the pie into his mouth. “Don’t reckon you have any coffee left?”

Rose glared at him. “You
reckoned
right.” Em had once said these Westerners did more reckoning than the Lord would do on judgment day. “Of course, I’m sure you’ve already checked out the empty coffeepot.”

He grinned—a devastating, curl-your-toes grin. The kind that brought an exciting jolt to a young girl’s heart. Thank goodness she’d been around enough to recognize it when she saw it and wouldn’t let herself be deceived by its appeal.

“You’re pretty smart for your age, Redhead.”

“Not really. You’re just pretty dumb for yours.”

“You always have a smart answer, don’t you?”

“That’s right, cowboy. Tell you what; the pie’s on me if you get out now.”

“Let’s sit. My ma always said that standing up and eating gives you a bellyache.”

“Your mother’s right. Take the pie with you and sit down and eat it in your room.”

“I like the company here.” He surprised her by pulling out a chair for her, then waited until she sat down before taking a seat himself. “Bite?” he asked, offering her a piece on the end of the fork.

“No, thank you.”

“It’s good.”

“I know; I had a piece. Will you just hurry up and eat it? I’m tired, and I’d like to leave.”

“You been in this town long?” he asked, taking a healthy bite.

“A week too long.” She began drumming her fingers on the table.

“So how long have you been in Brimstone?” Another bite passed between his sensual lips.

“A week.”

His warm chuckle played a tune on her spine. “I like you, Redhead.”

She stared into the sapphire eyes capped with those damn long lashes that women struggled to achieve with mascara or kohl. Even the stubble on his jaw couldn’t detract from them.

“I have a name, sir: Dubois. Rose Dubois.”

The sapphire gaze remained fixed on hers. “Mine’s Zach MacKenzie.”

“That’s a coincidence,” she said, surprised. “I know a Josh MacKenzie. He’s a Pinkerton agent—or was, rather. Are you related?”

He didn’t bat an eye. “Pinkerton? You have some trouble with the law, Rosie?”

“I just prefer to avoid lawmen. But this one married a close friend of mine.”

“Is that right? Well, MacKenzie’s a common name out here. What don’t you like about lawmen?”

“The ones I’ve encountered are worse than the outlaws they’re chasing.” The first, and worst, had been Sheriff Wes Sturges, who’d entered her life when she was seventeen. But she refused to dwell on that.

“So you
have
had some trouble with the law.” He popped the last bite of pie into his mouth.

“I didn’t say that.” She picked up the tin, carried it into the kitchen, and put it on the sinkboard. When she turned, he was there behind her. How could he move so soundlessly on the wooden floors?

He surprised her by slipping an arm around her waist; then he drew her against his hard muscle and flesh. Ordinarily Rose would have repelled the advance with an elbow to his ribs or a knee to his groin.

But for some reason entirely alien to her sense of survival, she didn’t do either. There was a heady excitement to being so near him, and she’d been around enough to feel confident she could control the situation.

“What do you think you’re doing, MacKenzie?”

“Since I can’t have coffee, I’ll settle for this.” His kiss stopped the words of protest on her lips.

The pleasure was instant, explosive. Realizing she’d underestimated his effect on her, Rose tried to draw away. He cupped her neck with a warm palm to keep her still, and his touch overwhelmed her senses as much as his firm, warm lips—as much as his hard, heated body pressed against hers.

She’d been kissed before, but never felt anything like she was feeling in the arms of Zach MacKenzie. Everything about him excited her, aroused her. How she’d yearned for such a touch—for such a thrill.

But she was playing with fire and it was an insanity she couldn’t afford. She groped for the Colt on his hip, drew it out of the holster, then pressed it against his stomach.

He stepped back, but didn’t release her. His mouth curved into the barest hint of a smile. “You ever shoot a man before, Rosie?”

“That’s for me to know and you to think about.”

He dropped his hands away and studied her with those damn sapphire eyes. “Why, Rosie? You were as curious about this kiss as I was, and you sure as hell were enjoying it as much as I was.”

“That’s your opinion. And keep calling me Rosie and I
will
pull this trigger.”

“Why the act? You’re not fooling me for a minute; I know what you want from a man.”

“That’s good—because you don’t have it.” She handed the gun to him.

“You sure?” he asked, slipping the Colt back into its holster. “That kiss says otherwise.”

“All that kiss will get you is a free piece of pie, MacKenzie. Don’t think I don’t know
your
kind. I’ve been fighting off riffraff like you from the time I sprouted breasts. You’re all poured from the same mold.”

“What’s so bad about a couple of kisses between friends, Rosie?”

“Maybe a couple of hot kisses and a roll in the hay is enough for you, but not for me, MacKenzie,” she declared, jabbing a thumb at herself. “I’ve got plans for my future, and they don’t include a down-on-his-luck drifter like you.”

“Who’s talking future? You’re wasting your time if you’re trying to convince me that you’ve been saving yourself for the right man. We both know better.”

Her fingers itched to scratch the smirk off his face. Granted, she was no virgin, but she was no whore, either. And he was treating her like one. But what did it matter what he thought, anyway? Why should she let it bother her? She’d always shrugged off such looks before.

So why did it hurt this time?

Rose looked up into his eyes, and said softly, “No, Zach MacKenzie, you’re the one wasting your time. You see, you don’t know me at all.”

“But I soon will, Rosie.”

For a long moment he stared at her. She returned his gaze in silence, broken only by the sound of her pounding heart hammering in her ears.

He walked to the door, then turned his head and looked at her. “By the way, Rosie, when you’re that close to a man, never draw a pistol unless you cock it. Some men might not take too kindly to it and turn it on you.” Tipping a finger to the brim of his Stetson, he nodded. “Good night for now.”

She stood motionless as he departed, and waited until she heard the bell jingle. With trembling hands she groped behind her for the sinkboard. Leaning back against it, she closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. Her lips still tingled from his kiss—her body still trembled from his touch.

Zach MacKenzie had thrown out a challenge. Did she have the will to meet it? Brimstone had suddenly become more dangerous than she imagined, if a saddle tramp like him had the ability to curl her toes. For the first time in her life she was afraid to trust herself. She could only hope that he and his gang kept moving on. If not, she had to avoid him at all costs.

Zach remained in the shadows when Rose came out and locked the door. There’d been no sign of Tait when he’d returned to town, and that bothered him. Jess Tait swaggered through life making a lot of threats, and he usually carried them out—especially with someone smaller or weaker than he.

So the redhead knew his cousin Josh. Well, the less said about any family connection, the better. He couldn’t keep himself from grinning, though, thinking about Josh and his bride. Rose had said she and Emily were friends. He’d bet his best pair of boots that the two gals were too much for any one man to reckon with. Next time he saw Josh, he’d have to find out what part Rose had played in his cousin’s courtship.

Hugging the shadows, Zach followed Rose the short distance to her boardinghouse. A few seconds after she entered, a light glowed from a rear window.

“Good night for now, Rose Dubois,” he murmured. “I’d like nothing better than to tuck you in bed, so mark my words: one of these days I’ll be saying good morning, as well.”