Anita Mills (9 page)

There was dead silence between them for a long moment, then he looked away. “Well, you’ve made a tough hill for any man to climb,” he said soberly.

“My father was a dangerous man, Mr. McCready—handsome and seductive. Just like you.”

He looked up at that. “I may have done a lot of things that I’m not exactly proud of, but whether you want to believe it or not, I’ve never run out on anyone. Call it curiosity or call it folly, but I’ve always played the hand to the end.”

“I expect there are dozens of women who could tell a different tale.”

“Maybe they could, but they won’t. Like I told you, there’s two kinds of women in this world, and I can tell the difference. So I always went for the bad ones. That way, they didn’t expect anything, and I didn’t disappoint them. When it was over, it was over, with no regrets on either side.”

She didn’t have any answer to that, none that would prick his conscience, anyway. If he really believed that, then he’d just never looked back to see the women crying behind him.

Verena was so hungry her stomach hurt, and making matters even worse, the smell of fried chicken completely permeated the air, almost haunting her, driving everything else from her mind. Somewhere at the other end of the ranch house, her fellow passengers were probably gorging themselves on that chicken and everything else.

Closing her eyes, she could envision the mashed potatoes, the cream gravy, the early beans, the biscuits. . . . No, she told herself severely, she’d just have to wait until somebody brought her supper. At least she was cleaner than when she arrived, she reminded herself.

As soon as McCready had lifted her down from the wagon, Mrs. Goode was there, hovering over her solicitously, insisting she get out of her clothes, wash up a bit, and lie down to conserve her strength in the heat. As Verena balefully watched McCready wander off to, no doubt, enjoy himself, she was taken by the arm, guided to this small bedroom, and left with two pitchers of warm water and a big chunk of homemade soap. Mrs. Goode then left her alone, promising to send her “a mite to eat later.”

So Verena had stripped down to her chemise and drawers, then washed the sweat and dirt from every place she could reach. Finally, she soaped her hair and rinsed it as well as she could. Before she was finished, a young Mexican girl had darted in to snatch up her soiled dress, and disappeared without a word, leaving her no choice but to remain in her room. With nothing else to do, she’d lain down on the lumpy, totally unsatisfactory bed and stared at the cracks in the plastered ceiling, tantalized by the mouthwatering aroma of that fried chicken.

While she waited, she listened as numerous wagonloads of rowdy railroad passengers were brought in. Judging by the noisy cursing and loud behavior, it sounded as if they’d congregated right outside her window. Then the dinner bell rang, and somebody shouted, “Come and get it—food’s on the table! Everybody as gets in line gets served, but where you eat it is your business! Just get the vittles and keep movin’ on through, ‘cause there ain’t room to be sitting down in the house!”

It wasn’t until everything had pretty much quieted down that another girl, this one a thin, tired-looking blonde of maybe fourteen or fifteen years, appeared at Verena’s door, tray in hand. Placing it on a table near the bed, she’d started to leave when Verena looked down in dismay. There was only a scant bowl of brown liquid and one slice of unbuttered bread.

“Excuse me,” she said, stopping the girl, “but you must have forgotton the rest of it—I mean, there’s been some sort of mistake.”

“Huh?”

“This cannot be my dinner,” she declared positively.

“Yes’m, it shore is.”

“Then I need to speak to Mrs. Goode.”

“She cain’t come, she told me to tell y’all real perlite like. But what with nearly a hunnerd passengers and ever’body on the repair crew, her hands is plumb full.” Smiling now, the girl added proudly, “Me ’n’ Juana ’n’ the missus, we done fried up nigh t’ thirty hens, while’s Betsy and Angela wuz a-peelin’ a bushel and a half o’ potatoes.”

“Oh, I see,” Verena said with relief. “This is just the first course. You made soup to go with dinner.”

“No’m. That there’s broth Juana had left from bilin’ the beef bones. She wuz a-gonna make some gravy with it, but there wuzn’t enuff beef t’ go ‘round, so they’s ettin’ th’ hens instead.” Seeing that the visitor wasn’t at all pleased, she took several steps backward before explaining, “Bein’s y’all wuz sick and in a dellycut sit-u-a-tion, th’ missus allowed as how too much on your stummick’d make y’all a whole lot worse off.”

“But I’m already so hungry I could cry,” Verena protested.

“Oh, Ah reckon she’ll let y’all have somethin’ t’night, if’n y’all wuz to keep that down yuh.”

“Tonight!”

“Yes’m.” Taking advantage of Verena’s obvious consternation, the girl made a hasty exit.

“Wait a minute—where’s my dress?”

Either the girl didn’t hear, or she was deliberately ignoring her. It was all some sort of hideous mistake. By the time the sun went down, Verena wouldn’t even be here. She’d be in Columbus, parting company from Matthew McCready. Coming off the bed, she ran to the door, shouting, “Will somebody please fetch my dress? I’ve got to talk to someone!”

With the exception of an elderly Mexican walking toward her, the corridor was empty. As he caught sight of her standing there in her thin lawn chemise, his face broke into a toothless grin. Unnerved, she retreated enough to close the door and slide the bolt, locking it.

The room was airless, stifling. Moving to the window, she could see the train’s passengers everywhere— leaning against tree trunks, sitting on the grass, on bare dirt, perched on the porch railing even—and every one of them had a plate of food. The Mexican girl who’d taken her dress was circulating among them with a pitcher, filling cups.

Dispirited, Verena went back to sit on the edge of the bed. The springs under the mattress creaked ominously and the whole side dipped downward. Tearing off a piece of the bread, she dipped it into the broth, and then carried it to her mouth, telling herself it was better than nothing. Just barely. Beneath a film of grease, the liquid was salty and heavily flavored with onions. It certainly wasn’t anything she’d feed a guest in
any
condition.

Some time later, there was a soft rap on the door. Thinking it must be the girl finally returning her dress, she hastily threw the bolt and opened the door. She’d been wrong again—it was Matthew McCready with a big carpetbag in one hand and what looked to be a rolled-up napkin in the other.

“You’ll have to come back later,” she said, quickly getting behind the door to close it. She was too late. His foot was in the way.

Seemingly impervious to her embarrassment, he walked right into the room, leaving her standing there, gaping. As she watched in disbelief, he put something down on the chair’s seat, dropped his bag, then shrugged out of his coat and hung it over the chair’s back. Crossing her arms over her breasts, she elbowed the door shut. Then her temper exploded.

“Just what do you think you’re doing in here?” she demanded furiously. “In case you didn’t notice, I’m not dressed!”

“Shhhh—they’ll think we’re quarreling.”

“I don’t care what they think, Mr. McCready. Get out of my room this instant!” Looking about her for a weapon, she saw nothing useful. “Did you hear me? I’m telling you to get out!” He was loosening the thin black silk tie at his neck. Shocked, she took a couple of steps toward the window to call for help, but the realization that there was no telling just who or what might come to her aid stopped her. As a precaution against the A1 Thompsons of the world, she lowered her voice. “Answer my question—just what
do
you think you’re going to do in here, anyway?”

He looked over at her, an unholy gleam in those nearly black eyes. A smile lurked at the corners of his mouth as he answered, “Make myself comfortable.”

“Before I let you lay so much as a finger on me, I’ll bring this whole house down on you. If I have to, I’ll scream until Sheriff Goode comes in here himself.” When McCready didn’t seem impressed, she licked her dry lips and threatened, “I’ll tell him you’re a wanted man—that you’re trying to ravish me—that—”

“I brought you some fried chicken,” he murmured.

“You’re not listening to me! I’m not dressed, and you cannot be here! It’s indecent!” Then it dawned on her what he’d just said. “You brought me some supper?” she asked cautiously.

“There’s three pieces of chicken in that napkin.” Grinning now, his gaze slid over her lazily. “I never did understand what it is in a woman that makes her think she’s naked when she’s still got everything covered.”

“If you had any shred of decency, you’d know,” she retorted. “Where is it?”

“My decency or the food?”

“The food.”

“I put it on the chair seat. Come on over and get it.” As he was answering, his hands undid the top button of his shirt.

For a moment, she just gaped, then she found her voice. “I may be hungry, Mr. McCready, but I’m not
that
hungry,” she declared coldly.

“Suit yourself. If you don’t want it, I guess I’ll probably eat it sometime before I turn in. After the feed she just put on, I doubt if the Goode woman’s going to cook another full meal today.”

“Well, you’re not turning in here, whatever that means.”

He considered the bed, then her. “In spite of what I said about you being heavy, you don’t look like you’d take up much room. Tell you what—you just take that hat pin to bed with you, and if I roll over onto your side, you can jab me with it.”

Taken aback, she choked out,
“What?
Surely you don’t think—well, you can just rid yourself of that notion right now! This is
my
room, Mr. McCready! And I don’t know what you think you’re going to do, but I’m not about to go along with it.” Spying an old iron poker in the corner behind the empty potbellied stove, she edged toward it. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him remove his shirt. “For the last time—
will
you get out?”

“Not until I wash up.”

“You can wash up outside. Surely they have a water pump somewhere out there. Then you can go sleep off whatever you’ve been drinking under one of those trees until we leave.”

“It was lemonade. I don’t think the sheriff wanted to give an already short-tempered bunch of men anything stronger.”

“I don’t care what it was,” she snapped. “Believe me, I cannot wait until nightfall to reach Columbus.” Snatching the poker, she swung around. Rather than heading for the door, he had his hand on the water pitcher. As she lifted her weapon, he raised an eyebrow.

“You know, before you go to swinging that thing, maybe I’d better tell you it’s going to be tomorrow sometime before they get the rail fixed. The damned thing’s buckled.”

“What?”
she fairly screeched.

“You know, for an educated female, you repeat yourself a lot.”

Do you mean to tell me that after what I can only consider an utterly miserable ride on the train—that— that we’re
stranded
in this godforsaken place?”

“Uh-huh. Looks like part of the rail buckled because of the heat, or at least that’s what one of the crew told Goode. If they can’t get it straightened out, they’ll be sending back to Harrisburg for another one. So, my darling Bess, I guess we’ll just have to make the best of it.”

“Ohhhh no, we don’t. There’s no way on God’s green earth that I’m going to share this room with you, Mr. McCready.” Brandishing the poker with both hands now, she said evenly, “Now—for the last time, are you getting out—or do I have to divide your thick skull with this?”

Before she knew what he meant to do, his hand caught her arm, forcing it down. Leaning into her, he was so close she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face. “You know, if your mama was anything like you, I can see why the old man left her.” As her eyes widened, he nodded. “Now, let’s get a few things straight right now, Miss Verena. First, I’m just as tired and just as cranky as you are. Second—second, seducing a shrew is just about the last thing on my mind. Third—”

Her chin came up. “There’s no need to be rude or crude, Mr. McCready.”

“Third, you can raise the roof if you want to, but you’d better think about it first. When it gets dark around here, every nook and cranny on the place is going to be filled with disgruntled passengers—they’re already talking about putting thirty to forty men on that porch out front. And right now, you’ve got just about everybody’s sympathy except mine. But if you let the cat out of the bag that we’re not man and wife, you’re going to find yourself out on your ear and facing those men all by yourself.” His piece said, he released her hand. “Still want to hit me with that?” he gibed.

“Yes. But I won’t.” Dispirited by almost everything, she let the poker slip from her hand. “I guess you can sleep on the floor.” Turning away, she leaned her head against the wall. “I’m nothing like my mother, Mr. McCready.”

He’d dealt from the bottom of the deck, and he knew it. Coming up behind her, he felt almost helpless. “Look, there’s no need to cry, Verena,” he said, sighing. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t know either of them.”

“I’m not crying, Mr. McCready,” she responded tiredly. “I never cry. I watched Mama shed enough tears to last both of us a lifetime.” Savoring the coolness of the plaster against her temple, she closed her eyes. “I’m just weary, hot, hungry, and alone. I don’t belong here, and I don’t know why I’ve come. Maybe to spit on his grave—I don’t know.”

His own anger gone, he laid his hand on her shoulder. “You want to close the book. It’s like that for me, you know. Γ hate to throw down my hand before that last card’s turned over.” Turning her around to face him, he smoothed her damp chestnut hair back from her forehead with the palm of his hand. “When you hit a run of bad luck, Rena, you just keep playing and hoping tomorrow’s going to be better. And eventually it is.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

She was too pretty, too vulnerable for him to resist. Before he realized what he was doing, he found himself bending his head to hers, tasting the salt on her lips. When she didn’t resist, his arms slid around her shoulders, holding her so close, he could feel the warmth of her body through the thin cotton chemise.

For a moment, she yielded to his kiss, savoring the heady strangeness of it. Then the shock of his bare arms and shoulders touching hers caught up with her. Stiffening, she brought her hands up between them, pushing him away.

She looked more shocked than angry. Stepping back, he ran his fingers through his hair before he managed, “I’m sorry, Rena—I didn’t intend to do that.”

Her eyes still wide, she stared into his face. “Papa used to call me Rena,” she whispered, swallowing the lump in her throat. “He was the only one—ever. To Mama, I was always Verena.”

The spell totally broken now, he exhaled heavily. “You’d better eat before you faint. Then after I get cleaned up, maybe we can walk around—maybe look the place over before it gets dark. There’s no sense in being cooped up in here.”

“I can’t go anywhere in my underclothes, Mr. McCready.”