Intimate Strangers (Eclipse Heat Book 2) (14 page)

Double-Q drovers raced their horses alongside the surging mass, trying to turn them, but the storm-maddened animals refused to be guided, heading at a dead run toward Lucy and Brody.

Lucy forgot about hitching Ben to the wagon and screamed at Brody, “Get up on him. Now.”

Ben stood steady as Lucy boosted Brody up and then Alex tossed her aboard, remounting his own horse as the cattle surged around them.

Lucy tried to keep the draft horse beside her son’s mount but the bawling, shoving mass divided them.

Ambrose could see the chuck wagon sitting minus the team of horses that had been hitched to pull it to safety. The rain whipped against his face as he desperately scanned the area.

Even as he watched, cattle stomped across the wagon, crushing it under hooves as they destroyed all in their path. Then to the left he saw Lucy and Brody, mounted bareback, clinging tightly to the harness leathers. Lucy had the reins in hand, guiding the horse into the stampede.

“No. Turn back,” Ambrose bellowed the words into the wind, guts knotting at their danger. Any minute they could go down under the hooves of two thousand steers. He scanned the area for a sign of Alex, hoping his son could get to the women.

Instead, he was in time to see his son’s gelding buck, jump and stumble as a longhorn grazed him from the left. Ambrose felt raw fear as his son lost his hold and fell, disappearing under a surge of animals.

Helplessly, Ambrose watched Lucy work her way toward where Alex had fallen.  She stopped and reached down, holding on to the leather guide straps on the back of the workhorse. Brody clung to her mother’s waist and the big draft horse stood rock solid while the milling cattle buffeted him on all sides.

Both Quince women stretched, reaching into the boiling cauldron of beef to hoist Alex up. Lucy swayed, almost coming unseated. Brody grabbed a hunk of leather, steadying them. Ambrose inhaled finally when he saw his son pull himself on board, wrapping his arms around Brody and Lucy too. Luce turned the big animal and let the tide of bodies sweep them along, gradually working her way to the edge of the storm-crazed cattle.

Ambrose let the cows run. He was concerned only with making sure his family was all right. By the time he reached the big draft horse, Lucy had her arms around the kids, hugging on them as though she’d never let go.

Drovers rode past, whooping and driving the steers away from the marooned trio. Ambrose grinned as he motioned the Double-Q riders on.

“Herd ’em toward Wichita. Let the sonovaguns run until they’re out of steam.” He guided the horses clear of the milling cows and dismounted, setting each family member to the ground where he held them in the circle of his arms. Ambrose stood, chest heaving, unable to say anything as his chin rested on Lucy’s hair, squeezing her, Alex and Brody in a tight bear hug.

Lucy had to be able to feel his heart thumping because it was ready to leap from his chest. She looked up, patting his shoulder before stepping from his arms and walking toward the trampled chuck wagon. “We’re fine. Let me see what I can save.”

“Let it go,” he told her gruffly as she pawed through the wagon debris, looking for salvage.

Instead of paying him any mind, she hauled out the shepherd’s stove and tugged a metal chest from the mess. “This is where I keep my dry makings—salt, flour, coffee, and such. I’ve got my cookies stored in here too.” Ambrose hoisted the shepherd’s stove and chest onto Ben’s back, tying them down while Lucy supervised.

He set Brody on the back of his saddle and took Lucy up before him, unable to ride without holding on to his family. Had he been able to fit Alex in, he would have hugged on his son too.

The rest of the family seemed a hell of a lot less unsettled than Ambrose. When they made camp, Brody bustled around with her mother as they set the coffee brewing.

Alex found Juniper standing in the wake of the stampede and led her to camp where, once reunited with Ben and his usual calm temperament, she settled down.

The cowboys kept pace with the cattle, bunching them for delivery the next day as they lost their steam and slowed to a stop. Then the men drifted into the wet camp Lucy set up, taking turns huddling under the tarp rescued from the trampled chuck wagon.

Ambrose nearly burst with pride when he heard the appreciation the drovers murmured over hot coffee. He suspected that no cowboy who’d ridden with Lucy Quince in that wild stampede to Wichita would ever say anything negative about his wife.

There was no give-up in her. She made scratch biscuits somehow and passed out leftover cookies and hardtack that she’d resurrected from the wagon, all the time apologizing that she couldn’t provide better. And Brody, bless her heart, hung right next to her mama, helping.

Lucy bandaged the banged-up and fed the hungry, and eight-year-old Brody helped as though it was just another thing to do in a day’s work. When Lucy tended Ezekiel Smith’s leg where the flesh had been ripped from midthigh to knee, Brody helped clean the wound with the aplomb of a Florence Nightingale. Then she stood next to the drover’s head and patted his shoulder comfortingly when Ambrose and two of the hands held the man still while Lucy stitched the leg.

After he’d seen to the security of the camp and his family, Ambrose mounted up and rode far enough away for privacy. He’d barely made it into the concealing darkness when shudders racked his body until he could barely get his breath. He dismounted and vomited, emptying the bile from his stomach.

When he rode back to camp, the storm had run its course, settling into a misty rain that was almost soothing after the mad rush of the stampede. As he neared, he heard sounds of celebration. There was a lot of laughter among the hands, more jokes, good and bad, than one would expect after the mud-flying, hair-raising experience they’d just endured.

Except for Zeke’s encounter with a steer’s horn, no serious injuries had occurred. But they all knew how the night could have played out. It was a fact that the stampede had ended with hot coffee and cookies instead of casualties. Both were credited to Quincy’s woman in murmured words of approval.

When Ambrose rode in, he wearily dismounted and elbowed his way between Alex and Brody.

“Sugar Plum, I think you’re plumb tuckered out.” His daughter leaned against her brother, watching Lucy sleepily. Ambrose slid his arms around the kids, hugging them close.

For the moment, Alex wasn’t concerned with appearing grown-up, content to sit under the arm slung around his shoulders. Ambrose inspected him but, other than a cut on his forehead that Lucy had doctored and a wrenched shoulder Ambrose rubbed with liniment, the kid was right as rain.

All three stared at Lucy across the camp where she was brewing another pot of coffee for the tired and wet drovers. Alex watched her with hungry eyes, anxious to claim her, erasing his past doubt about their relationship. “She’s our real mother, isn’t she?”

Brody answered Alex, aggressively taunting her brother about his fall now that death had been averted. “Of course she is, dummy. Who else would have come to rescue you when you fell off your horse?”

“Pa,” Alex said hesitantly. “How are we going to get her to stay?”

That notion of her leaving was so hurtful to Ambrose and plagued his mind so often that his voice was gruffer than he meant it to be. “She’s come home now,” he assured his children. “She’ll not be leaving again.”

Brody said with conviction, “Mama didn’t leave us. She was took. It seems to me what we need to do is make sure no one takes Mama again.”

A flush of shame scorched his cheeks as he remembered Lucy’s comment, “‘Maybe I had reason to be jealous
”. An eight-year-old has more sense than I do.
The notion that someone had taken Lucy away against her will had once seemed ludicrous. Now anything else made no sense.

Ambrose hugged his daughter closer and agreed. “Yep. You’re right, Brody. Mama was took but we’ll not let anything bad happen to her again.”

The herd arrived ahead of schedule because their stampede cut a half day of travel time from their already fast pace. Ambrose didn’t find Hamilton at the stockyard but his brother’s savvy business deal greeted him, guaranteeing greenbacks when the Double-Q brand poured through the Wichita streets.

Every stitch of clothing and personal items belonging to Lucy and Brody had been lost along with the chuck wagon. With that in mind, Ambrose stopped at the nicest hotel in town and rented a suite of rooms with baths so that the ladies could clean up before seeing the sights.

He got them settled, and then he and Alex went shopping. They were standing outside Miss Penelope Woodard’s Clothing Emporium when Hamilton found them.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Irritated and not bothering to hide it, Hamilton jumped to the wrong conclusion. “Bet Lucy has to have a new dress. Couldn’t wait to spend some of this money on her—right?”

Ambrose grabbed his brother and growled, “You’ll show her proper respect from now on. I should have my ass kicked for ever tolerating less.”

Releasing his rough grip on Hamilton’s shirt, he turned away, as disgusted with himself as he was with the other Quince dummy. All the years of fighting and distrusting Lucy now just seemed stupid. He had no intentions of continuing on in the same direction.

He dragged Ham back to the store he’d just left, filling him in on the stampede and the state of Lucy and Brody’s wardrobes. “We’ve got to get them some duds before we do anything else.”

“Ladies’ clothes,” Hamilton snorted. “What do I know about ladies’ clothes?”

Neither of the men knew much, having spent more time with cows and men than females. But the owner bustled over, evidently smelling money as well as cow manure, and set herself to make a sale.

Ambrose and Hamilton debated the merits of pinstriped cotton over a navy-blue shirtwaist when they both noticed Alex across the store fingering a yellow silk. The proprietor winced when she saw his dusty grip and hustled over to where he stood.

He ignored her and turned to his father and uncle. “Do you think this would fit her?”

The storekeeper looked doubtful. “This is a very elegant ensemble. It comes with the parasol, the shoes, white stockings, a reticule, a hat, and then, of course, the dress.” When that didn’t seem to intimidate them, she asked, “Is this for your wife?”

Ambrose nodded.

She asked, “What size is she?”

Alex said she was short and then argued with Hamilton over her build.

“She’s plump,” Ham said.

The shop-owner immediately tried to maneuver them away from the yellow dress. “It’s not a creation for a voluptuously curved woman,” she said firmly.

Ambrose stared at the yellow dress, reminded of Lucy’s costume the day they’d first met. “How much?” he asked.

Miss Woodard shook her head sadly. ”It is a beautiful design but a lady with a more fulsome figure will not be able to fit its elegant lines.”

She pointed at how it nipped in at the waist and rose to a fitted bodice ending in a ruffed collar at the throat. “The skirt is gathered into a small bustle in the back, just enough for style but not too big to make walking difficult,” she assured him.

Alex continued his disagreement with Hamilton. “My mother’s not plump. She’s almost skinny. But she’s strong. She lifted me out of a cattle stampede with one arm.”

Ambrose growled, “Hell’s bells, she’s not plump and she’s not skinny.” He used his hands for measure, showing the saleswoman Lucy’s size. “Her waist is near nothing but her hips round out real nice.” Indicating the dress dummy’s chest he conceded some fullness. “Up top, she’s a mite plumper than most.”

Alex and Hamilton nodded agreement and Miss Penelope named a price that had Ambrose swallowing hard.

“Hope you brought some money with you, brother,” he muttered to Hamilton.

“Yep,” Hamilton grinned, handing Ambrose a wad of bills. “I missed you coming in, but when I went back to check, the government draft was ready and I collected it, took it to the bank, and had most of it wired ahead to our account in Eclipse. I kept enough out to pay the drovers and for a Quince celebration. It appears we’ve got a lot to be happy about.”

Ambrose paid for the yellow dress in crisp greenbacks and Miss Penelope whisked the dress from the tailor’s dummy, wrapping it in tissue paper, emphasizing again how unique and special it was.

Before they left the store, they purchased new clothes for Brody and
unmentionables
for both females as directed by the saleswoman. Then she pointed them to the local barber and dry goods store for new clothes for themselves and baths and haircuts for all three.

When they returned to the rooms, they were laden with packages, and all three men were in good humor. Hamilton had been regaled with the exploits of everyone, but especially those of his sister-in-law.

Ambrose used the spare key to let them inside the hotel suite. It had two bedrooms connected by a little sitting room. The hotel had let it to him because this was all that had been available after the Circle Five roared into town—right after the Double-Q had completed the sale. There were too many cowboys and not enough rooms to go around in the bustling railhead.

Hamilton took the couch in the sitting room and immediately sprawled across it with his hat over his eyes. Alex looked with interest at the second bedroom but Ambrose was drawn like a magnet to the room where Brody and Lucy were curled up asleep. Lucy had her arm thrown around their daughter and for once, the gun was nowhere in sight. He took that as progress.

Wet clothes were strung around the room, drying in the sun coming through the window, and Lucy’s drawers were sunning themselves as well, leaving him to speculate about what she was sleeping in.

The brown packaging that the dress emporium owner had packed their purchases in crackled under his hands and Lucy sat up with gun in hand.
Now where did she have that tucked away this time?
He squinted down the barrel. “Don’t shoot, it’s just me.”

She was flushed with sleep and her hair was a tangled mess that had dried and twisted into corkscrew curls while she’d been too tired to brush it out. Then he remembered with a start that she had no comb or brush to use.

He nodded at her and stepped out of the room, explaining, “Clothes for you and Brody. We’ll all go to dinner when you’re dressed and ready.” As soon as he shut the door, he kicked Hamilton off of the couch and sent him on a mission to buy a brush set.

Not just any brush set either. He’d seen a silver-backed brush, comb and mirror set where they’d bought the dress. He’d regretted not buying it then, but made Hamilton rectify that error.

When Hamilton hurried back not much later, carrying the wrapped package, Ambrose knocked this time before he let himself in. “Thought you might need this.” Then he looked up and gulped.

The yellow creation fit. Both females were dressed and now stood waiting for his approval. Lucy had already taken control of Brody’s hair, pulling it into a tight braid. Brody stepped forward and took the package, tearing the brown paper off before he could say it was for Lucy. “Oh look, Mama. Look what Papa got for me.”

Lucy’s smile widened as she gave her daughter a tender look. “It’s beautiful. We’ll move a vanity into your room at home, and this will hold the center spot on it.”

She admired the silver back and went on, “Someday when you’re a mother and a grandmother, you’ll brush a little girl’s hair and tell her about when your papa bought it for you in Wichita.”

Then she laughed and looked closer at herself in the mirror. “Do you think I can borrow it now?” Brody grinned at the curling mop billowing wildly around her shoulders and handed Lucy the comb and brush. Ambrose wanted to offer to be Lucy’s lady’s maid but was afraid of getting turned down in front of his daughter, so he let it go.

“We’ll be waiting in the other room for you ladies to complete your primping.” He heard Brody giggle as he pulled the door closed behind him and was suddenly glad that the silver brush set had ended up hers.

It was like Lucy had said—someday Brody would show that set to her own children and tell them about the cattle drive to Wichita that she’d accompanied her family on. He felt good about it even if it hadn’t been his idea.

Ambrose knew that somewhere on the trail between Double-Q land and Wichita, they’d become a family again. Now only one thing seemed left to make it real.

“Christ, brother,” Hamilton drawled. “Get your tongue back in your mouth before you step on it.”

Ambrose was reminded that his son was watching and answered, “Nothing wrong with a man admiring his women.” He wanted to hold Lucy in his arms, still afraid that she’d disappear if he looked away too long.

Oh, hell, he knew in his head that she spoke the truth. She couldn’t have run off like he’d thought. But the state of their marriage had been such, at the time he figured she’d wanted to. The children hid the same anxiety he did. What if they loved her and she left again? Unfortunately, there was no going back for any of them.

This was Lucy but not the girl he’d married. This was the woman she’d become. It was so real that it couldn’t be denied, which meant that the young, frivolous, bored girl he’d struggled to keep happy during the years of his marriage had hidden her true self.

Or else he’d been too damn stupid to see the real Lucy. She had yelled at him that last day, saying that since he’d treated her like a brainless child, good only for ornamentation and bedding, that’s what she’d become. Her voice had been full of spite and anger that ran deeper than her disappointment at his cancellation of her horse deal.

He’d agreed with her self-description before she’d fled his insults—but when she was gone, the housekeeper left, the children cried, the house was empty, the flowers died and part of him froze inside. He cringed when he remembered the insults he’d hurled at her. Hamilton had been right when he suggested that some memories were better left forgotten, and he was selfish enough to hope that if her memory ever did come back, she’d forget that fight.

Three years before, she’d ridden away saying, “I’ll do what I want to do and go where I want to go, Ambrose Quince. Remember that.”

She’d been so calm and cold when she said her parting, later it had been easy to believe she’d left him for good.

Lucy stood next to Brody, peering into the hotel mirror, admiring the yellow dress that Ambrose had delivered. She was surprised at how well it fit, although thinking about it, she shouldn’t be. Ambrose had felt about every part of her body that he’d been able to lay hands on and had spent a lot of time on the trail staring at the rest.

He’d stood licking his lips, looking at her as if she was dinner and he was a starving man when he delivered his second package and saw her in the yellow outfit.

Memory loss or not, she recognized lust in a man’s eyes when she saw it. She would have liked to blame the yellow dress, but Ambrose had looked at her the same way when she wore faded calico.

Brody giggled, giving her a knowing look. “Pa’s sweet on you.”

Lucy blushed like a schoolgirl but ignored the observation, changing the subject. “You look very pretty, Ambrosia Quince.” Lucy admired her daughter’s blue outfit. Then she relented and giggled too.

“I almost shot your pa when he sneaked in here with the dresses he and Alex picked out.” She had about given up the habit of keeping a gun close, but in Wichita it seemed prudent. Lucy met Brody’s eyes in the mirror. Both sets crinkled up in merriment.

“Pa looked like a squirrel caught with his paw in a robin’s nest.” Brody grinned. Lucy laughed at her apt description—he had looked funny, stealing glimpses of them on the sly.

Brody looked fine in her blue dress. She touched the little line of white lace that crossed the bib in front and smoothed the soft folds of the skirt. Ambrose had included two white ribbons, which Lucy held in her hand.

“Let me fix your hair, Brody.” Lucy had already divided Brody’s hair into two parts and plaited it, so now she used the new brush to smooth the escaping tendrils before tying it off with a bow at the end of each braid. Then she took the silver-backed brush and bent over, stroking the thick length of her own curly hair until it crackled.

Armed with hair pins and a hat, she set about taming the mass. She pinned her hair on top of her head in order to anchor the hat properly. When she finished and looked into the hotel mirror, the reflection didn’t look like anyone she knew.

Lucy adjusted the ruffled dress collar and admired the way it hid most of her scar. The bodice fit snugly, the way it was designed to do, but it was tighter than Lucy would have preferred.

“I don’t know about this, Brody. I feel like one of your dolls.” Lucy hated touching the delicate material with her roughened hands. She wished she’d brought the skin creams sitting unused on the bedroom vanity at the ranch.

Brody studied their mirrored image, a slow smile growing ’til she beamed. “I think we look just fine.”

Lucy slid her smaller gun into the reticule that matched the dress. She asked, “Ready?” When Brody nodded, she opened the door to the outer suite.

Their presence caused a hush. Lucy had read that line in one of Roberta’s dime novels. She’d laughed at the description when she’d read the words, unable to imagine it. But when the two Quince ladies entered the sitting room, sure enough, all three males went slack-jawed and silent.