Anita Mills (18 page)

“I feel—” She swallowed again. “I feel like I’m in an oven, Matt.”

“Yeah. Drink up,” he said. Rising again, he went back to the washstand and poured more water, this time into the basin. Wetting a cloth, he carried it back. Leaning over her, he wiped her sweaty face. “If you think you’re going to be sick, tell me.”

“No.”

“It’s that damned gown,” he muttered under his breath. “You’re bundled up as if it were winter in the Rockies. Isn’t there anything cooler you can wear?”

“My chemise.” This time, she took a gulp of the water, and between it and the face washing, she felt better. “But it’s clean.”

“Where is it?”

“On the chest.”

“I’ll get it.”

When he returned with the folded garment, he circled the bed, coming up behind her. “Come on—let’s get this on you.”

She was dizzy, and she had a notion she was drunk, but she wasn’t totally lost to all propriety. “No.” She felt his hand reach around her neck for the top button, and she caught it with both of hers. “Don’t.”

“I’ll blow out the lamp,” he offered. “I won’t see anything.” Easing onto the bed behind her, he caught her arm, pulling away one of her hands, then he shook off the other. His fingers found the second button and slid the buttonhole over it. He could feel her whole body stiffen. “Easy now—I’m not wanting anything but sleep. Way I figure it, about the only way that’s going to happen is if you get cool enough to sleep yourself.”

“I can do the rest,” she whispered.

“All right.” Keeping his promise, he turned away to turn down the wick. The yellow flame rose narrowly, then dropped to a tiny blue ball before going out. The wick glowed red as a thin, acrid band of smoke escaped through the glass chimney. “How’s that? Feel better now?”

“No. It’s not dark enough.”

“I can do a lot of things, Rena, but I can’t put out the moon.” When she didn’t move, he sighed. “If you think can get into the chemise by yourself, I’ll keep my back turned.”

It didn’t matter, she told herself wearily. She was alone in the room with him, and once she went to sleep, she’d be pretty much defenseless, anyway. Finishing the buttons, she worked Sarah’s gown down from her shoulders, then she shook out the clean chemise and pulled it over her head so the bottom hung down enough to cover her breasts. Thrusting her arms through the armholes, she wriggled the cloth down to her hips. With an effort, she stood up to push the gown down with one hand and tug the hem of the chemise with the other. Trying to step out of the nightgown, she stumbled dizzily, slipped, and fell backward into bed.

“You sure you’re all right?” Matt asked her.

“Just barely.”

He turned around then and rolled her onto her side, where she lay, facing away from him. Easing his own aching body down into the feather mattress, he heard the buzz of another mosquito. Exhaling his resignation, he crawled to the bottom of the bed, retrieved the sheet, and pulled it up to cover both of them. The mosquito, he decided, was welcome to what it could find.

Lying there, he stared up at the ceiling, trying not to think of the woman beside him. It was a losing effort. She was a beauty, but no more beautiful than some of the other women he’d had, just in a different way. It was that damned vulnerability, he supposed. The women he usually encountered were hard, almost brittle by comparison. They knew how to play the game, but she didn’t. No, by her own admission, she was a twenty-two—almost twenty-three—year-old-spinster schoolteacher, and her only armor seemed to be an inbred distrust of men like him.

If he had any sense, he’d put her on that stage at Columbus and wash his hands of her. But from the beginning, nothing he’d done where she was concerned made much sense. Oh, there’d been the possibility of seduction, and the notion that he could use her to cover his own tracks. Neither of which had panned out, he reminded himself. At all.

But for all her sharp words, she was an innocent when it came to dealing with men, particularly the sort she was likely to encounter between here and San Angelo. It’d be like abandoning a babe teetering above a pit of rattlesnakes. But he had to do it. Eventually, anyway. He had to think of his own neck. He couldn’t afford to get in any deeper with Verena Howard.

His thoughts stalled, jarred by the realization that her shoulders were shaking. Well, he couldn’t blame her for crying, not when he considered everything that had happened to her so far. Telling himself he was doing it so he could finally get some sleep, he rolled onto his side behind her, and reached his arm around her body.

“Hey, everything’s going to be all right, Rena,” he whispered into her soft hair. Rubbing his chin against her crown, he drew her closer, protectively curving his body to hers. “Come on—don’t cry. Another couple of days or so you’ll be in San Angelo taking care of your business. Then before the month’s out, you’ll be on your way back to Philadelphia.” His hand brushed against her breast, sending a current of awareness through his body. Pulling it away as though it had been burned, he opted for the safety of smoothing her hair instead. “Rena, I’m beyond bearing anything more,” he said softly. “Don’t break down on me now.” Her shoulders shook harder. “Hey, come on—”

“B-but I’m not crying!” she burst out finally. “I can’t help it—it’s just funny! I’ve been humiliated and mortified half a dozen times in less days, and yet when I look back on it, it’s funny!”

“You’re
laughing
?” he managed incredulously.

“I can’t help it!”

“I don’t understand this—I don’t.”

“No, don’t you see? For as long as I can remember, everything was about being prim and proper—even the schoolteaching. No,
especially
the teaching—and look what’s happened to me!”

“You had too much wine, that’s all,” he murmured. “Come morning, you’ll be a real sourpuss.”

“Is that what you think I am—a sourpuss?”

“No. But you’re going to be.” Feeling a very real sense of relief, he brushed her damp hair back from her temples with his fingertips. “You’re going to have one hell of a headache.”

“I don’t care, Matthew. I don’t care.” She rolled onto her back to look up at him. “I’m not what I thought I was.”

Her eyes were luminous in the faint moonlight, and her lips were moist, parted. And the chemise was so thin he could feel the heat of her body. She was almost asking him to take advantage of her. No, it was the damned wine, fooling his mind into thinking she was like every other woman he knew, that he could taste and take, and it wouldn’t make any difference, but he knew better. She was a ball and chain waiting to snap around his leg, and she didn’t even know it.

“What you are is drunk, Rena.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. A body oughtn’t to drink when he’s as tired as you are.”

“What about you?”

“I’m used to it. I can handle straight whiskey.”

“I never had anything stronger than coffee before.”

“I know.”

“You think I’m silly, don’t you?”

“No. I think you’re damned pretty—and drunk. And if you don’t turn over, you’re just asking for something you don’t want. When your hangover wore off, you’d be expecting me to make it right, and I’m not the staying kind, Rena.”

“No, you’re a gambler,” she said solemnly.

“It’s not a winning hand. Even a fool would fold it.” Dropping his hand from her hair to her shoulder, he pushed until she turned over onto her side of the bed. “Now, go on—get some sleep.”

“Good night, Matthew McCready,” she murmured as he tucked the sheet beneath her chin.

“Good night, Rena.”

This time, it was he who lay awake. He was losing his edge, there was no doubt about it. There’d been a time, and it wasn’t all that long ago, when conscience wouldn’t have played much of a part in anything he did. But tonight, he probably could have had Verena Howard, and he’d backed off, knowing it would have been too hard to face her tomorrow.

“Get on, Jake! Go, Crow!” Eduardo yelled.

The blacksnake whip cracked above the backs of two mules, one a rusty brown, the other black, both of whom had seen better days. Jake was short, with wide, bowed-out ribs and spindly legs, while Crow was tall and as sleek as the blue-black raven for which he’d apparently been named.

As the rickety wagon struck a weathered tree stump, Verena held her head and moaned. She was hungover, all right, and Sarah Brassfield’s strong coffee had only made her as green as the clumps of grass by the outhouse. And Seth Brassfield’s offer of a “heer o’ thuh dawg” had been rejected with the revulsion of one experiencing the painful effects of already having imbibed too much.

Matt felt a real sympathy for her. If he lived to one hundred, he’d never forget his own experience when as a raw fifteen-year-old he’d tried to drown the memory of a man’s head exploding by downing more than a pint of Tennessee whiskey by himself. The next morning, he’d had to crawl to roll call, and every blast of the damned bugle felt like it was going off between his ears. It’d made him a teetotaler for a long time.

“You want to try lying down?” he asked her.

“I feel as if I could die.”

“It’ll get better.”

“I can’t even open my eyes.”

“It was that second cup last night,” he murmured. “Mrs. Brassfield sent a blanket you could roll up and use for a pillow.”

“No.” Wincing, she looked at Eduardo’s back. “We haven’t missed a hole or a bump yet,” she muttered.

“Road’s pretty bad,” Matt agreed.

The whip cracked again, sending a shudder through her. “How much farther to Columbus?” she asked dully.

“I figure we’ve gone a couple of miles.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“If you were a bird, I’d guess about six miles. On this road, I wouldn’t even try to estimate it.”

“I’ll never drink anything fermented again—not as long as I live,” she declared flatly.

“It’ll get better.”

“You keep saying that, but I don’t see any sign of it. You should have stopped me, you know. You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?”

“I thought maybe you were too tired to sleep, and the wine would help.”

“It wasn’t worth this morning.”

With an effort, she turned her head sideways to look at him. His black hair was still wet from where he’d stuck his head under the Brassfields’ pump. Maybe she should have tried it. Instead, she’d held on to the chest with one hand while trying to drag a comb through hair that seemed to be as sore as her head.

The eyebrow over his good eye lifted. “Surely, I don’t look that bad.”

“No. The swelling’s gone down a little, and it’s not quite as dark a purple,” she decided. “Can you see any better out of it?”

“Some.”

What she really wanted to know, she was afraid to ask. As bad as she’d felt when she woke up, she could still wonder how she came to be in her chemise instead of. Sarah’s big, cumbersome gown. She distinctly remembered sitting at the table, drinking Seth Brass-field’s elderberry wine in the nightgown. Beyond that, her recollection was downright hazy. But waking up in bed with Matthew McCready’s backside against hers and her chemise pulled up to her knees gave rise to thoughts she was afraid to put into words.

Wetting her parched lips with her tongue, she allowed cautiously, “I don’t remember much about it—about last night, I mean. At least, not after the mosquitoes, anyway.”

He knew what she wanted to know, but he was curious as to how she was going to get around to it. “Yeah. Well, I don’t remember much before they hit.”

“You were sound asleep.”

“You know, that’s the second ruckus you created in two nights,” he reminded her. “If the train’s gone on by the time we get to Columbus, I’m getting a room to myself.”

As hot as it was, her cheeks felt hotter. “I was warned about coyotes, cougars, and rattlesnakes, but nobody said
anything
about mosquitoes the size of—of bumblebees!” The instant her voice rose, she regretted it. The pounding in her head was unbearable. When it finally subsided, she managed, “Yes, I think that would be wise—separate rooms, I mean.”

“I thought maybe we could claim to be brother and sister until I put you on the mail wagon. After that; you’ll have an armed escort, so you won’t have to worry about getting to San Angelo.” Studying her fine profile, he couldn’t resist making her squirm a little. “Yeah, you wouldn’t want a repeat of last night,” he added wickedly.

“No, of course not.” Now she was worried. Casting a quick look at Eduardo’s back, she hesitated. “Uh—”

“I wouldn’t worry about the kid, if that’s what you’re thinking. As far as I can tell, he’s been shouting the only English he knows at those mules. And if he’s learning to speak it like Brassfield, he won’t understand you, anyway.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Dropping her gaze to her hands, she considered for a moment, then ventured, “I guess I
was
pretty silly last night.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it silly,” he murmured noncomittally.

She’d just have to try another angle. “Well, I suppose a woman who has drunk too much must be rather disgusting.” When he didn’t respond, she managed a furtive side glance. “Well?”

After the collapsed bed and the mosquito horde, she deserved to fret before he let her off the hook. “Well, I don’t know… .” He let his voice trail off.

“I suppose you were too drunk to notice yourself,” she suggested hopefully.

“There are some things a man remembers no matter how much he’s drunk.”

“Like what?”

“Like the way chestnut hair spreads across a pillow. Like the way a woman’s lips part when she’s inviting a man to kiss her. Like the way her skin glows in lamplight. The way fire reflects in hazel eyes—”

Mortified, she closed her eyes and swallowed. “You don’t need to go any further, Mr. McCready. Please.”

“It was Matt last night,” he reminded her.

“You, sir, are no gentleman,” she whispered.

“I thought we established that on the
Norfolk Star,
Rena.”

“But I thought we were friends, and you—you—”

“Took advantage of you?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose now you want me to make an honest woman out of you,” he said, sighing.

“Certainly
not
!” The pain shot through her head, mocking her now. “I wouldn’t marry a dishonest man if he were the last one left on earth.” Twisting the ring on her finger, she shook her head miserably. “I just can’t believe that two cups of wine would make me do something like that. I can’t believe I’d let you kiss me, that I’d—” No, she couldn’t even put that thought into words.

“A person’s real character doesn’t change with drink, Rena.”

That was an even worse thought. As hot tears stung her eyes, she swallowed again, this time to force the lump in her throat down. Her mother’s warning echoed loudly in her ears.

Always remember it’s the really handsome man of this world who is the most dangerous, for he has an instant advantage over a woman, and believe me, he is practiced in the art of using it. Having been cosseted and flattered by the female sex all of his life, he’s learned early on to take a woman’s heart lightly, worthy of little or nothing in exchange. You can never trust a handsome man.

But she didn’t even have the excuse of succumbing to his blandishments or even false promises. No, she’d had two cups of elderberry wine, then thrown herself at him with an apparent lack of any persuasion whatsoever. And she didn’t even remember any of it.

“What you must think me,” she choked out.

One look at her stricken face told him he’d carried the joke too far. “Actually, I think you’re quite a lady.”

“I think we’d better part company in Columbus—I don’t think I want to face you any longer than I have to.”

“You didn’t hear me, did you? I said I think you’re quite a lady, Verena Mary Howard,” he said softly. “I probably owe my life to your prompt thinking on the other side of Eagle Lake.”

“There’s no need to flatter me now, I assure you.”

Now he had to retrieve the situation. “Oh, I see,” he said as if it had just dawned on him. “You thought that you and I—that we—”

“There’s no need to say it.”

“Well, it didn’t happen.”

“But you just said—”

“I know.” His mouth turned down in a wry, twisted smile. “Let’s just say that was a lot of wishful thinking on my part.”

“Ohhhhh—of all—”

“Well, you didn’t want it to be true, did you?”

“No!”

“I had you going for a while, didn’t I? Made you even forget that pain in your head.”

Torn between immeasurable relief and boundless fury, she took a deep breath and held it, counting for calm. Thinking she’d mastered herself, she let it out. “You know, I’d like to believe you, but all you do is tell one lie after another.”

“I’d swear on a stack of Bibles I didn’t touch you, if it’d make you feel any better.”

“I woke up in my chemise, Mr. McCready.” Giving that a chance to sink in, she paused, then declared flatly, “I went to bed in that awful calico tent of Mrs. Brassfield’s.”

“Is that what’s bothering you?”

“Yes.”

“You kept saying you were too hot to go to sleep, so I fetched your chemise, turned off the lamp, and faced the other way while you changed into it.”

“And all the rest of it—all those other things you said?”

“I told you—wishful thinking.” The corners of his mouth lifted into an outright smile, making him look almost boyish. “Believe me, if anything had happened, I wouldn’t be wanting a room alone tonight. I’d be doing my damnedest to get a repeat performance.”

“Do you know how low you are?” she demanded.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me.”

“My head hurts as if it could burst—and if it did, it would be a relief, Matthew McCready. You sat there and watched me drink that stuff, knowing what was going to happen, and you didn’t even warn me. And then you tell me I behaved with wanton
abandon
last night, and—”

“With what?”

“You know perfectly well what I mean. Anyway, for your own
perverse
enjoyment, you let me believe that I was no better than a … a cheap tart, knowing full well that it would … would …”

“Mortally wound you?” he supplied.

“I don’t know what I was going to say,” she snapped, “but whatever it was, it would have blistered your ears.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. But if you believed it, you didn’t have a very high opinion of me or my morals either.”

“I wasn’t aware you had any.”

“Now that was uncalled for. For two days and nights, I’ve nursemaided you, fending off over-amorous cowboys and imposters, going without sleep, getting myself beaten up, and you don’t have so much as one ounce of gratitude for any of it. Go on, admit that, will you?”

She couldn’t refute it—it was all true. She regarded him tiredly for a moment. “All right,” she said finally, “but I didn’t ask you to do any of those things for me, did I?”

His eyebrow lifted again. “Not even at Goode’s?”

“Well, maybe then,” she conceded. “Look, all I know is if I don’t get some relief from this headache, I might as well die. And you’ve just been sitting there laughing at me, and you know it. You don’t know how bad I feel, or if you do, you just don’t care.”

“Yeah, I do,” he admitted, soberly. “First time it happened to me, it was Tennessee whiskey, and I couldn’t see straight for two days. I’ll bet it was a year before I took another drink, and even then I was mighty cautious about how much I had.”

“I can’t even hold my head up.”

“Lean against me,” he offered. “I’ll hold it up for you.”

“I wouldn’t even—”

At that moment, the wagon hit another stump, almost bouncing her out of her seat. As her aching head snapped forward, sending acute pain through her eyeballs, Matthew caught her, pulling her against him, steadying her head with his shoulder. Beyond fighting any more, she leaned into him and held on with both arms. It was disgraceful behavior, but she was beyond caring about appearances right now. And whether she wanted to admit it or not, there was comfort in being held.

The wagon jolted, this time to a halt, and the boy driver shouted something in Spanish. Coming awake suddenly, Verena straightened up and looked around. What she saw first was a river.

“Where are we?”

“About to cross the Colorado,” Matt murmured. “Columbus is right over there. As soon as the ferry deposits us on the other side, we’ll get a couple of rooms. Then while you sleep off the last of that hangover, I’ll go pick up our bags.”

“Oh.”

“Feel any better?”

She sat still for a moment, then decided, “My neck’s half-broken, and my head still feels like it’s been kicked between my eyes.”

“That hour-and-a-half sleep didn’t help any?”

As she turned her head, her neck popped audibly. “I don’t know—I’m still too tired to tell.”

“We’ll get you a real bed and some peace and quiet,” he promised. “Come tomorrow, you’ll be all right.”

“That’s the ferry?” she asked suddenly, momentarily forgetting her pain.

“Yeah. It’s not much, is it?”

“It’s medieval, that’s what it is.”

As ferries went, this one was a small boat, piloted by one man, whose source of power was a frayed rope over a windlass with a block and tackle. Coming back across to pick them up, the whole apparatus creaked and groaned until the boat came to rest by bumping against the small pier.

“It’s probably the same boat Stephen Austin came across the Colorado in. This is kind of the cradle of Texas, you know. Right over there, the first three hundred settlers branched out to homestead this area back in the twenties,” he said, pointing to some big oaks on the other side.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve been here before?”

“Once. It was right after the war, when I was looking for someplace that wasn’t overrun by Yankees. But Texas wasn’t much different from the rest of the South—and what the carpetbaggers weren’t running, the Indians were raiding. So I went to New Orleans, where things didn’t seem to change as much. It’d been overrun by the Spanish, the French, and us before, and instead of knuckling under, it just absorbed ’em. I figured maybe it’d swallow up the Yankees like everybody else. And it more or less did. New Orleans,” he declared flatly, “will always be New Orleans.”