Lady Lavender (11 page)

He stayed for coffee with Jeanne, then, because she
was short of food, he rode into town for bacon and scrambled eggs at the boardinghouse. After he'd teased Mrs. Rose about her undercooked bacon, he rode out to the rail spur at the Green Valley site.

Wash and his team of Celestials had carved out and graded a gentle slope down the hillside to the valley floor. Amazing what these small, tough men could accomplish working together as a team.

He wished things between a man and a woman could be resolved as efficiently. Maybe Wash should ask his Chinese crew for advice in the courtship department!

Or maybe not, noting how haggard his partner looked this morning. Jaw tight. Eyes like gray thunderheads.

“Mornin',” Rooney called to him as he emerged from the canyon.

Wash just grunted.

Rooney dismounted and peered over the edge toward the east end. “You figure out your gradients for the steep end of the valley yonder?”

“Nope.”

Rooney smothered a grin. “Distracted, were ya?”

Wash's stony gaze met his. “Mind your own business.”

“Aw, come on, son. What's got a burr up your britches on a morning this beautiful?”

“Didn't sleep much,” Wash snapped. Inside, Rooney exulted. Outside he tried to look sympathetic.

“Had me a fine time with Jeanne and Little Miss last night,” he offered. He lifted the wilted remains of the dandelion chain which still hung around his neck. “Little Miss made me a necklace.”

Wash took a step toward him. “How is Jeanne? Any trouble?”

“Not trouble, exactly. Just a bit of unrest. Jeanne's anxious to sell her lavender things to the mercantile. She needs the money.”

Wash gave a curt nod of acknowledgment. Rooney waited as long as he could stand it, then said, “Jeanne's comin' out to Green Valley around noon today. Bringin' you…um—” he scrambled to come up with a believable lie “—uh…bringin' you some lunch.”

“What for?”

“Jes' bein' friendly like, you know—”

“I plan to eat in town,” Wash said with a scowl.

“Well, ya damn fool,
un
-plan it! Won't hurt you none to be nice to the lady whose valley you're tearing up for your railroad.”

Wash's face changed. He stared at Rooney and finally gave a low grunt and another short nod.

Rooney blew out his breath. Well, by damn! He'd better hustle on back to town and catch Jeanne at the mercantile, let her know about the picnic lunch she'd “promised” to bring.

He signed to Wash, mounted and turned the roan toward town. Funny, he didn't feel a bit of guilt for the falsehood he'd fabricated.

 

Wash saw his partner touch spurs to his mount and disappear in a cloud of dust. So, Jeanne was coming out and bringing his lunch. Nice gesture, he guessed. At the thought of seeing her again his stomach floated up just under his rib cage and flipped over.

Part of him didn't want to lay eyes on her. Another larger part wanted to smell her hair and put his hands on her skin. But what the hell would he say to her after their night together?

Judas and Joseph! Sooner or later he'd have to own up to being damn scared.

He snorted and began to tramp back down the valley slope. Scared? That was like describing a thunderstorm as a spring shower. The worst part…

Aw, hell, he couldn't even say it. The worst part was that he was beginning to recognize that he cared about her; and, not only that, he still wanted her. He wasn't sure he would ever stop wanting her.

A
ll that morning Wash thought about seeing Jeanne again. What would he say to her? It felt as if he was watching himself from outside his skin, and what he saw was a man in turmoil. A longing ate at his gut and nibbled away at his spirit, but his fear chewed him up like that rusty plow Jeanne wanted, dragged over a barren field.

He climbed up to the valley rim and scanned the road that stretched toward town. “Never thought of myself as a coward,” he muttered. “Learn something new every day.”

A puff of dust caught his eye, about a mile away; he watched it move toward him. Oh, Lord, it was Jeanne's gray mare. He couldn't wait to see her again, hear her voice. He hadn't stopped thinking about her for the last twenty-four hours.

On the other hand, he wanted to drive her from his thoughts. Hell's bells, she'd tied him up in knots.

The gray mare halted a good ten yards from where he stood. He studied his boots for a long moment, afraid to look at her. His heartbeat tripled, slamming against his rib cage like the hooves of a wild horse. Not even a Sioux war party evoked a fear like this.

She gave him a half smile. “Hello, Wash.” That was all it took for the war party to attack.

“Jeanne,” he acknowledged. He looked up at her, then wished he hadn't. A glow of hot sunlight spilled around her shoulders where she sat her horse; her straw hat was tipped down to shade her face, but then she lifted her head and her eyes met his.

The bottom fell out of his belly.

She held up a wicker hamper. “I brought you some lunch. And some coffee.”

His legs started toward her of their own accord. She handed the basket down to him and slipped off the mare into his arms. She smelled good, like soap. He wanted to kiss her so much his chest ached.

“It's…good to see you,” he managed. The truth was he was stunned at how happy the sight of Jeanne Nicolet made him.

She stepped away from him. “It is awkward, too, is it not?”

She didn't wait for an answer, but moved past him and pointed across to the opposite side of the valley.

“Over there is my thinking spot. It would be nice for a picnic, no?”

No.
The thought of sitting close to her in some shady
bower made his hands curl into fists. “Sure,” he found himself answering.

She started off, walking purposefully along the horse trail that skirted the valley rim. He could see she was used to walking; he had to lengthen his stride to keep up with her. He concentrated on the sway of her blue checked skirt and tried to keep his mind off her backside.

“Where is Manette?” he wondered aloud. It was the only thing he could think of to say.

“At the hotel dining room. Rooney is filling her up with strawberry ice cream.”

“Rooney is a good man.”

“
Oui.
He is a good friend, as well. Manette likes him.”

She didn't explain, but she didn't have to. Wash knew his partner must have told Jeanne all about Laura Gannon. He felt completely exposed.

Within ten minutes they had circled the valley rim and all at once Jeanne stepped off the path and led him to a spot where a vine maple had woven itself between two elders to form a sun-dappled trellis.

“Here,” she announced. She reached for the hamper he carried and flipped open the hinged wicker top. Then she bent her head and rummaged in the basket.

Wash tried not to let his eyes linger on her bare neck. He held his breath until spots danced in his vision to avoid inhaling the scent of her hair.

She spread a blue gingham tablecloth over a grassy spot and settled herself on one corner, her legs folded under her skirt. She sure liked blue gingham. Her dress
was blue gingham, and he remembered the blue gingham curtains she'd hung over the bunkhouse window. She must have brought an entire bolt from New Orleans when she'd come West.

Wash plopped the hamper in the center of the tablecloth and took the opposite corner, stretching his long legs out until the tips of his boots almost brushed the white petticoat poking from under the flounces of her dress.

“Are you hungry?”

Her question sent a red-hot knife up his spine. “Sure,” he groaned. Damn, but he was hungry.

“I am, too. Very hungry. I have been working hard this morning.”

“Yeah?” With relief, Wash grabbed on to the conversational thread. “Working on what?” He accepted something wrapped up in a napkin—blue gingham, again—and watched her pour coffee from a Mason jar wrapped in a thick towel.

“On my lavender, of course. Surely you do not think my work ends with cutting a wagonload of lavender? My work is just beginning.”

Wash unfolded the napkin and bit into a still-warm pancake of some sort, rolled-up and filled with something. Melted cheese. His belly was going to heaven.

“This morning,” she went on, “I sold ten wreaths to Monsieur Ness at the mercantile for ten cents each, and seventeen small sachets for five cents apiece.” She flashed him a proud smile.

“I have now almost two whole dollars!”

Wash couldn't help grinning at the note of triumph
in her voice. He took another, larger bite of the pancake. “What will you do with your earnings?”

Her eyes—those green-blue eyes that had pulled at him the first time he'd met her—blinked and widened until they looked like two lumps of turquoise. “Why, I will rent a house, of course. For Manette and me!”

“With two dollars? Jeanne, that's not enough to—”

“But it
will
be. I am making more wreaths and…” Her voice trailed off. “You do not think I can rent a house?”

Wash reached for another napkin-wrapped pancake. “I started to say no, but I've watched you for the last seven days and I'd guess you can do pretty much anything you set your mind to.”

The oddest look came over her face, half questioning, half challenging. Instantly her expression altered. He'd give two dollars just to know what she was thinking.

“Alors,”
she said thoughtfully. “I am glad you think so.”

“What do you call these pancake-things?” he asked quickly. “Sure taste good.”

“They are called
fromagettes.
Little cheeses. You make a thin pancake and roll—” She bit off the words. He was staring at her mouth with a strange expression, as if he wanted to—

Jeanne's throat closed. He wanted to kiss her!
Oh, yes, please yes.
She wanted him to. She rested her eating hand in her lap and leaned toward him.

“Jeanne,” he said, his voice low.

“Oui?”
She held her breath, waiting.

“All I've thought about the past two days is you. Making love to you. And I don't think—”

She released a sigh. “Rooney said something very wise last night. He said, ‘Don't think.'”

Wash stood up suddenly and turned his back. “Tell Rooney to mind his own business.”

She thought for a long minute. In the quiet she could hear the cry of a hawk soaring overhead, mingled with the murmur of wind in the treetops. Finally she rose and moved toward him, so close his ragged breathing was audible.

She raised her hand, rested her palm against his back. “Perhaps we should not talk. Perhaps between us silence is enough.”

He turned and she stepped into his arms. He kissed her until she grew dizzy, until the rasp of his breath against her temple made her weak with wanting. And then he set her away from him.

“I have to get back to work,” he said, his voice rough. He began to gather up the picnic remains and the tablecloth and stuff them into the hamper.

“Mon Dieu,”
she said to fill the awkward silence. “For a large man you have a very small appetite.”

 

For the rest of the day Wash drove himself and his Chinese crew, without mercy. The tough, wiry Celestials easily weathered the grinding hours spent hacking the brush and trees away from the planned rail bed. They smoothed it level, or as level as it could get considering the required angle of descent into the valley.

Wash himself took down the three remaining fir trees
on the sloping hillside. He didn't have to help out, he just needed to work off the steam he'd built up trying to keep his hands off Jeanne.

He leaned on his ax handle and watched the last evergreen tilt, then crack and smash onto the ground with a
whump
that made the earth tremble. Before he could shoulder his ax, the little figures in floppy blue pajamas were crawling over the felled tree, limbing it up like energetic ants. They cut it into six-foot lengths, split them and laid them crosswise on the cleared roadbed, flat side up. Wash counted the number of ties as he worked his way down the incline, figuring out how many iron rails would be needed to lay track the next day.

The Chinese worked without stopping. Amazing men. He understood now why Sykes had hired them; when this line was completed, Sam and his boys would be sent to the Sierras as graders and powder-monkeys to blast tunnels into the rock.

Late in the day he watched the crew lay track right up to the valley rim, and it was a sight to see. A flat car behind the rolling bunkhouse carried rails to within a hundred yards of the site, then the rails were loaded onto an iron-wheeled cart which was pushed to the end of the tracks. It took eight of the wiry men to hoist one length of iron clear of the cart and drop it in place, right side up. A second team swarmed over it, pounding spikes which fastened the rail to the split-wood tie underneath.

At that point another crew took over and in a matter of seconds, more rails were carted up and dropped into place. Wash calculated three rails went down about
every minute, a feat of unbelievable coordination and teamwork.

At six o'clock the Chinese scampered up the incline to the bunkhouse car where the cook had supper waiting. Wash was tired; the old war injury to his hip was throbbing, but he didn't want to go back to town just yet. He'd wait until he was sure Jeanne and her daughter had gone back to MacAllister's bunkhouse; then he'd ride into town and eat supper. Mrs. Rose served up dinner around sundown.

He spent the hour walking the length of the valley, double-checking the spiked joint bars that held the individual rails together, recalculating the gradient and figuring what would be required to lay track over curves less than twenty-four degrees as the railroad climbed out of the opposite end of the valley.

He felt good about the railroad. Thirty-five dollars a month per man was a small price to pay for schools and churches, a telegraph office, maybe even a hospital. It would improve life for the whole county. Trained schoolteachers could come from Portland; homesteaders could haul their belongings to a farm five times faster on a train than in a wagon. Oranges could be shipped in to Smoke River before they got moldy! The railroad meant civilization in this rough, raw land and Wash liked being a part of it. It was, he had reflected often enough, lots better than killing men and blowing up bridges.

But, in spite of his feelings of pride and accomplishment, this stretch of railroad didn't bring the euphoria he usually felt at seeing a line take shape. Something was missing.

Maybe it was coming back to Smoke River and facing all those memories of Laura. Maybe it was because of what he'd been through in the War. He rolled around in his mind all the possible sources of his vague dissatisfaction, but he took care to put Jeanne in a separate niche. She had nothing to do with his work. “Nothing,” he snorted. She had something to do with a man's physical need for a woman, with his hunger for connection.

But that was all.