Lady Lavender (12 page)

J
eanne stripped the hard green peas out of their pods with short, jerky motions. “That man,” she grumbled to Rooney, who sat across from her with a kettle full of the shelled vegetables. “I wish I did not like him so much!”

Manette, crouched in a corner of the bunkhouse, poked her head up. “Who?
Maman?
”

“Monsieur Halliday.” She aimed a handful of peas into the kettle cradled between Rooney's knees. “He is forward, and then backward, and then…” She pressed her lips into a tight line.

“I think he is a nice man,
Maman.
” Her daughter bent once more to peek under the bunkhouse. “I like him.”

Rooney chuckled from his perch on an old log he'd rolled up to use as a chair and tossed his own handful of peas into the kettle.

“He
is
a nice man,
chou-chou.
”

Too nice. She ached for him to be bolder. More forward. With Wash she approached the edge of impropriety and she had never felt that way before—not even with Henri. But it appeared Wash did not feel the same.

“Little Miss is right,” Rooney offered. “Wash is a good man.” He eyed her with a sly smile. “You don't agree on that, Jeanne?”

Absently Jeanne nibbled the end of her empty pea pod. “
Oui,
he is…good.” She wrinkled her nose at the sour taste and sailed it onto the battered cookie sheet near Rooney's boots where the garbage was collecting.

Rooney's eyebrows rose. “Well, now, there's ‘good' and then there's ‘good.'”
Good
as in steady and responsible, and
good
as in too danged polite sometimes.

A short laugh burst out of her mouth. “This afternoon on our picnic, he was so well-behaved it made me angry!”

“Glad to hear it,” Rooney quipped.

She pinned him with a hard look. “Which are you glad to hear—that he behaved or that I was angry?”

Rooney slid the cookie sheet to one side, leaned over, and patted her arm. “Like I said, Jeanne, he's got some knots inside he has to work out.”

“Ah, I understand, of course. But could he not…I mean, he might…”

“No, ma'am, he's not gonna. Not till he's ready. Wash never does anything without thinkin' it through two or three times. And, Jeanne, I gotta tell ya, when it comes to you, he's probably already thought it over a dozen times.”

“He is afraid of me, no?”

“Not 'xactly.”

Jeanne gathered up another handful of pea pods. “Well, what, exact—”

A sharp cry sliced through the late afternoon air. Jeanne sprang to her feet, scattering shelled peas onto the ground.

“Manette?
Manette!
”

Rooney was already on his knees reaching one arm under the corner of the bunkhouse where Manette had been. He grasped one ankle and dragged the girl out on her belly; Jeanne flew to lift her upright.

Manette began to scream. Two small puncture wounds showed on the girl's forearm, and Rooney groaned. He got to his feet and whistled for his roan.

“Are you hurt?” Jeanne cried. “What is it,
chou-chou?
”

Rooney plucked the girl up and set her on his horse. “Snakebite,” he said as he mounted behind her. “Get yer horse, Jeanne. I'm takin' her to the doctor in town. Gotta move fast.”

Jeanne stood frozen with disbelief. One minute she was shelling peas on a peaceful afternoon, and the next her daughter was in danger.

“Jeanne!” Rooney shouted at her. “Move!”

He tore the blue bandanna from around his neck, fashioned a tourniquet on Manette's upper arm and twisted it tight using a short twig. “Lie quiet, Little Miss. You'll be better off if you don't move around much.” He leaned sideways and peered down at the girl's white face. “You hear me?”

“Yes,” she whimpered, her voice choked with tears. “I hear you. My arm hurts!”

“It's gonna hurt for a little while, Missy. You just sit quiet and hold on to the pommel here.” He positioned both her small hands on the hard leather knob, wrapped his left arm around her waist and spurred the horse toward town.

Jeanne ran for her gray mare, stood on the stump to clamber up onto the horse's back and dug her heels into its flanks. The horse bolted forward into a cloud of Rooney's dust. She put her head down alongside the mare's neck and began to pray.

She caught up with Rooney at the edge of town and followed him to the boardinghouse where he was staying. Jeanne reined to a stop right behind him.

“Doc Graham lives here, too,” Rooney panted.

She slid off the mare and lifted her arms for Manette. Rooney handed her down, dismounted and pounded up the porch stairs.

“Sarah!” he yelled.

A woman's figure appeared behind the screen door and took one look. “In here,” she cried. She swung the door open. “I'll get the doctor.”

Rooney lifted Manette from Jeanne's arms into his own. “Gotta climb the stairs,” he explained. “Too heavy for you.”

Manette's eyes drooped shut, opened, then closed again and her head lolled against Rooney's chest. Her daughter's face was flushed scarlet, her breathing too fast. Jeanne covered her mouth with both hands

The woman called Sarah stood next to an open
doorway on the second floor. “In here.” With Jeanne at his heels, Rooney charged into the room where a tall silver-haired man pointed to the single bed.

“Rattlesnake,” Rooney barked as he laid Manette on the quilted coverlet.

“How long ago?” the doctor asked.

“Maybe twenty minutes.”

The tall man swore under his breath, loosened the tourniquet and retightened it. “Gonna be close.” He bent forward with his shiny metal stethoscope.

“Doc, this here's the girl's mama, Jeanne Nicolet.”

The doctor glanced up. “The Lavender Lady? Heard a good deal about you, ma'am, but don't have time to be sociable just now.”

Jeanne's vision started to dim. She bent at the waist, sucked in air and began to sob.

Rooney laid his arm across her shoulders. “Try not to waste yer strength cryin', Jeanne. Doc Graham's the best doctor in the county.”

She nodded, swiping the tears off her cheeks with shaking fingers.

Sarah, the landlady, beckoned. “Come on, Miz Nicolet. You sit down here and I'll be right back with some coffee.”

Rooney steered Jeanne to a wing chair near the curtained window. She couldn't think. Couldn't talk. And she must not cry. It always upset Manette to hear her cry. Suddenly she wanted Wash, wanted his arms around her.

Rooney seemed to read her thoughts. He tiptoed for
ward, peeked at Manette's still form on the bed, then tramped over to Jeanne.

“I'll ride out to Green Valley and get Wash.”

She gazed up at his sun-weathered face and the long-ish graying hair. Without a word she rose and pressed her lips to his cheek. In the next moment she heard his heavy boots clomp down the stairs.

 

Wash heard the oncoming horse and instinctively reined up. Whoever it was sure had a burr under his saddle. When he recognized Rooney's roan gelding, a boulder thunked into his belly. Something was wrong. Through all the years Rooney had scouted for him, he'd rarely driven a horse that hard.

The roan made a wide circle around Wash and his mount, then pulled up short. “Got trouble,” the older man yelled over the panting of his horse. “Little Miss got bit by a rattler.”

Wash frowned. “Where is she?”

“Boardinghouse. Doc Graham's tendin' her.”

Wash sent silent thanks for the hardy physicians who practiced their profession on the frontier.

He lifted his reins. “Jeanne?”

“With Manette, at the boardinghouse.”

Wash spurred General so hard the gelding jumped sideways. He waited a split second for Rooney to catch up, then the two men set off for town at a full gallop.

Rattlesnake! How the hell—? But he knew the answer. Probably tried to catch the damn thing. He gulped back a snort. Lord almighty, Jeanne must be frantic.

He could not think beyond getting to her. He sucked
in a determined breath and concentrated on guiding his horse's pounding hooves around rocks and prairie-dog holes. Rooney rode at his shoulder.

At the boardinghouse a young boy—Sarah's grandson, Rooney explained—led their mounts off down the street to the stable. Wash paused to brush the trail dust off his trousers and shirtfront while Rooney mounted the porch steps and burst through the screen door. Wash was on his heels.

Sarah hurried to meet them, pointed up the staircase and signaled for quiet. “She's sleeping now. Doc says she'll probably be all right, but of course poor Miz Nicolet can't believe him.”

Wash removed his hat. “Can we go up?” He found himself convulsively mashing the brim until Rooney reached over and lifted it out of his hands.

Wash turned toward the staircase. All he could think of was reaching Jeanne, shielding her from the anguish she must be feeling.

Sarah laid a hand on Rooney's arm. “Doc Graham's back is bothering him. Could one of you carry the girl?”

“Sure,” both men replied in unison.

Upstairs, Rooney tapped once on the doctor's door and quietly pushed it open. Manette lay asleep on the single bed, her breathing labored. The doctor held her wrist, counting her pulse. Jeanne stood by the window, watching the wind in the maple trees outside. Her arms were wrapped tight across her midriff.

“Jeanne.” She turned at his voice and Wash strode across the room. She gave a small cry and stumbled into
his arms, laying her swollen face on his shoulder. He held her until her body stopped trembling.

“Doc says she'll probably be okay,” he whispered. Jeanne nodded but did not raise her head.

Rooney zigzagged around the doctor and bent over Manette. At Doc Graham's nod, he lifted the girl and started for the hallway.

Wash slipped his arm around Jeanne's shoulders and pivoted her toward the door. “Come on. Mrs. Rose has made sleeping arrangements for you. There's an extra bed in Rooney's room for you and Manette. Rooney can bunk in with me.”

Dr. Graham held the door open. “Keep sponging her off, Mrs. Nicolet. It will help to keep the fever down.”

“Yes, I will do that,” Jeanne murmured.

Outside in the hallway, Wash spoke aloud. “Have you eaten?”

“No,” she croaked. “I…could not.” She stumbled against him, then righted herself and let him help her into Rooney's room. The older man gently laid Manette's still form on the bed and covered her with the quilt he kept folded up at the bottom.

Wash steered a wobbly Jeanne toward the other small bed.

“Hold on a minute,” Rooney said. “Let's you 'n me move the beds close together so Jeanne can watch over Little Miss without gettin' up and down.”

The men butted the beds together. Wash led Jeanne over to the unoccupied one, sat her down on the edge, and knelt so he could look into her face. “Jeanne, you have to keep up your strength. You have to eat.”

She moved her head up and down in agreement, but she didn't take her eyes off her daughter.

Rooney signaled to Wash and the two men tiptoed out into the hallway. “Breaks yer heart, don't it?” the older man said on a sigh.

Wash's throat was so tight he couldn't answer.

“How 'bout some supper? Sarah saved us some chicken and potato salad.”

In answer Wash gripped Rooney's thick shoulder and squeezed hard.

He and Rooney finished off the leftover fried chicken and most of the potato salad. Wash drew the line at the strawberry shortcake, poured himself another cup of coffee and stepped into the kitchen, where Mrs. Rose was washing the last of the supper dishes.

The landlady glanced up in surprise.

“I just wanted to thank you, ma'am. Jeanne and her daughter are…well, you know, they're both important to me. And Rooney,” he added quickly.

A
t the knock on her door, Jeanne looked up to see Wash step quietly into the room and move toward her with a china bowl of something in one hand and a spoon in the other. He glanced at Manette. “Any change?”

She shook her head. He settled himself beside her on the extra bed and presented the bowl. “I want you to eat this.”

She sniffed the contents. It looked lumpy, but it smelled good. “What is it?”

“Bread and milk. My mother used to make it when I was sick with the measles.”

She dipped in the spoon and put a tiny bite in her mouth. The milk was warm and comforting and the bread fragrant with butter and something sweet. “Sugar?”

“A bit. I like sugar.”

“Good,” she pronounced.

Wash grinned. “If you like this, wait till you try my rolled-up sugar sandwich.”

Rolled-up sugar…
What a kind, thoughtful thing to do, bringing her something to eat. Suddenly she wanted to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him. But the bowl rested on her lap. She would kiss him later. If he would let her. She was beginning to see that her need for support warred with his need to stay uninvolved.

While she finished the last spoonful, Wash moved to the kerosene lamp on the bureau and turned the flame down. Jeanne had to smile. He must have noticed how tired she was.

She ran her gaze over Manette. The cool washcloth she'd been sponging her daughter's face and neck with was drying out. She plunged it into the basin of cool water at the foot of the bed, wrung it out and rearranged it over her daughter's mottled face.

Wash watched her every move. “I've got a clean shirt Manette could sleep in, if you'd like.”

“A shirt?”

“You know, use it as a nightgown. I'll bring one for you, too.”

“Yes, thank you. That would be nice.”

He picked up the ceramic bowl, left the room and returned a few minutes later with not one but two plain blue muslin shirts.

He laid them at the foot of the bed.

Jeanne looked at him long and hard. He was not asking anything of her; he was simply taking care of her needs the best way he knew how. She had not felt taken care of since she'd left France; Henri had been
too young, too irresponsible and there had never been anyone else.

But this man… He was doing something instinctively that would probably frighten him to death if he took a moment to think about it.

Wash's face was drawn with fatigue. He smelled of sweat and leather. And the slight hitch in his gait was growing more pronounced with every step he took. Yet here he was, bringing her supper, bringing his shirt for a nightgown. He was a split man, was that how one said it? One part of him divided against the other part.

Her eyes stung.
Vraiment,
Rooney was indeed right: Wash Halliday was a good man.
Un homme de bien,
her mother would say.

He touched her shoulder, moved toward the door, then stopped abruptly with his hand on the knob. “I'm going out to the wash house to get cleaned up, check on my horse. I'll be back in half an hour.”

Yes, a good man. She didn't care one
sou
what he smelled like.

 

Rooney rolled over on the pallet he'd laid out on the floor beside Wash's bed, spied his partner, and blinked at the third clean shirt he drew out of the bureau. “You already took two, how many shirts you need?”

Wash studied the man and gestured toward the unoccupied bed. “Use my bed, Rooney. I might not be back for a while.”

His partner sat bolt upright. “Huh?” He scratched his beard, and then a grin spread over his lined face. “Oh. I see.”

“No,” Wash said, his voice quiet. “You don't see. I figured Jeanne might…might need me for something.” He shooed Rooney off the pallet and began to roll it up.

“She sure as hell does!” Rooney crawled under the covers on Wash's empty bed.

“Yeah?” He was only half listening to his partner.

“Well, son, she does need you. Her daughter might be dyin' and Jeanne needs a strong arm to lean on and maybe some comfort talk.”

Wash stood up and shoved the pallet under one arm. “I'm no good at that, Rooney. I won't know what to say.”

Rooney barked out a
huh.
Then, “She sure don't need a strong, silent man in a spiffed-up shirt.”

Wash hesitated. He hadn't really thought about exactly what he was doing; he was driven by something inside him, something that whispered that he had to be there with her. Maybe he didn't know what to say, or do, but he knew he couldn't be away from her right now.

“'Night, Rooney.” He opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

“'Night, Wash. See you at breakfast.”

Wash paced up and down the hall outside Jeanne's door for a good ten minutes before he worked up the courage to lay his hand on the knob.

He guessed it didn't much matter how helpless he felt; right now all he wanted was for Manette to be okay and for Jeanne to hold steady.

He bowed his head. Was this too much to ask from a man who hadn't prayed in years?

He rapped against the wood and didn't wait.

Soft golden lantern light bathed the room. Jeanne was curled up in a ball, asleep at the head of the bed, one hand extended to rest on her daughter's arm. She had slipped one of his shirts over Manette's head; the sleeves were rolled up to her elbows. Her left arm looked red and puffy, but her breathing had quieted some.

He draped his clean shirt over the back of a chair and slid onto the bed beside Jeanne. She didn't move. He touched her shoulder, and she jolted awake.

“Oh, it is you,” she said in a sleep-fuzzed voice. “I am glad it is you.”

A curious warmth burrowed into his chest and he couldn't get enough air.

“Take off your dress, Jeanne. By morning it'll be a mess of wrinkles.” He began to unbutton her gingham shirtwaist. She wasn't really awake, he realized. Probably wouldn't remember a thing come morning. He worked the dress down off her shoulders.

The instant her hand was free, she reached out to touch Manette, then, without opening her eyes, let her head droop down onto her extended arm.

Wash slid his fingers along the waistband of her skirt, found the button closure at the back and gently slipped it free. He tugged it over her hips, unknotted her petticoat tie and pulled it off, as well.

Her work boots sat on the floor beside the bed. Wash looked at them a long time, then shucked his own and set them next to hers. His blue muslin shirt settled easily over her head and shoulders; he half wished it had but
tons down the front instead of the neck placket. Then he could…

Oh, no, he couldn't! He stood up quickly, draped her garments over the chair and blew out the lamp. The sky outside the single window was black as coal dust. When his eyes had adjusted to the dark, he carefully eased onto the bed next to where Jeanne lay, gently lifted her hand away from Manette's swollen arm and straightened Jeanne's pantalette-covered legs. Then he rolled her body toward him so her back snugged up against his chest. With one hand he searched for the wire pins holding her hair in its bun at the back of her neck, drew them out and stuffed them into his trouser pocket. Her dark, silk-soft waves spilled over his hands and he clenched his teeth.

He pressed his lips against the crown of her head and breathed in the spicy-sweet scent he knew he would never forget. Her soft, even breathing told him she was asleep, but his heart began to hammer so hard he was afraid she might feel it against her spine.

For a long, long time Wash stared up at the ceiling, wondering what the hell he thought he was doing, and at the same time knowing deep in his gut that, whatever it was, it was the right thing.

Long past midnight, Jeanne woke with a small jerk and immediately reached out to touch Manette in the adjoining bed. Her skin was still hot, but the snake-bitten arm Jeanne felt under her palm seemed less swollen.

She rose up partway to dip the cloth in the basin of cool water and smoothed it over Manette's hot face and
neck. It was then that her sleep-fogged brain began to register that she was not alone in the bed.

Most definitely she was not alone! Wash lay next to her, asleep, his bare chest rhythmically rising and falling, one arm flung out across the quilt toward her. Had she lain next to him all these hours? She emitted a tiny gasp.
Incroyable.
And how had she come to be wearing his shirt? She did not remember.

Or did she? She recalled his voice speaking low in her ear, but
Mon Dieu!
Her skirt and petticoat were gone. Underneath Wash's blue shirt she wore nothing but a lacy wisp of a camisole and her ruffled drawers.

Her face heated. He had undressed her? Surely not. But it was clear that he had done exactly that. With trembling fingers she lifted the cooling cloth from Manette's forehead and ran it over her own burning cheeks.

And then she had to smile. This man was unlike any she had known before. He was skittish about a relationship with her, yet when there was need, he was here beside her, caring for her the best way he knew.

She remembered that night after the Jensens' dance, those wondrous hours in his arms. And she understood.

Or thought she did. He wanted her, but he was not sure how far he dared to step into her life.

She leaned over the side of the bed, dipped the cloth in the cool water and wrung it out before replacing it on Manette's sweat-sticky forehead.

Releasing an unsteady breath, she gazed down at the man who slept beside her. Now what? She knew things about Wash, things that Rooney had confided and more
that she had deduced on her own. Wash Halliday had been badly burned by a woman, and he would not willingly wade into that fire again. On top of that, he had been injured in the War.

What, she wondered for the thousandth time in the past two days, did he really want? Yes, he desired her. But would he want more outside of satisfying a perfectly understandable male hunger?

And what did
she
want? She swallowed a soft laugh. At this moment she knew exactly what
she
wanted. And tomorrow?

Tomorrow she would see. Tomorrow she would want Manette to be well. Tomorrow she would want to somehow make a new home for her daughter.

And tomorrow she would want…him, still.
Oh, Lord, help me, my body is at war with my mind.

She gave Manette a final look and slid her body down close to Wash. He did not move, did not even twitch an eyelid. Sound asleep. She smiled to herself. She would wake him up in a way he would not forget.

She pulled the makeshift nightgown over her head and untied the ribbon at the neck of her camisole. When it crumpled off her shoulders, she lifted Wash's hand and laid it over her breast. The warmth of his fingers stirred her flesh; her nipples hardened and a flood of delicious heat flowed from her cheeks all the way down to her toes.

Careful not to wake him—at least not completely—she wriggled out of the long-legged ruffled drawers and worked the pantalettes down over her hips. With abandon she tossed away both garments.

Naked, she stretched out beside him, close enough to feel his hard, warm body against hers. He still wore his denims, but for now it did not matter.

Wash murmured in his sleep. She brushed her lips across his cheek, blew gently in his ear and repositioned his hand on her breast. He gave a low moan, but his eyelids remained closed.

She let her hand drift to his crotch and laid it slowly and deliberately over the swelling. Still he did not awaken. Even when she began drawing her fingers along the length of his manhood.

Then with no warning a hand of steel clamped around her wrist. “Jeanne,” he murmured. “Careful.”

Her eyelids flew open. “You are awake?” she whispered.

“Very much awake.” The laughter in his voice made her entire body flush with heat.

“Oh, but I thought—”

“Don't think,” he breathed near her ear. “And for Heaven's sake, don't stop.”

An irrational, blinding sense of joy swept through her. Her skin felt as if it were brushed with melted chocolate, and the place between her legs began to ache. It was glorious to be near him, to feel such exquisite sensations, so sweet and hot. Tears stung into her eyes.

Wash released her wrist and ran his hand up her bare arm. She reached again for his crotch, but he rolled away from her and then she heard the pop of buttons being released. He shucked off his jeans and underdrawers in one motion, then lay down next to her and pulled her close.

“Wash…” she murmured.

“Manette asleep?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“Yes.”

“Thank Heavens.”

“She seems better. Cooler.”

He did not answer. Instead he covered her mouth with his and she tried to stifle a cry of delight. His lips explored and aroused, told her of his hunger and asked for what he wanted.

“Oh, yes,” she whispered against his mouth. “Yes.”

While his lips moved over hers he began to touch her all over, slowly moving his hands on her skin as if dawn were hours and hours away and these precious stolen moments would last forever. Up her belly, across her breasts, into the shell of her ear. Her breathing grew heavy and uneven.

He lifted his mouth from hers and nibbled his way with quick, hot kisses down to her breast. “Jeanne,” he whispered, his voice unsteady.
“Jeanne.”

She stretched luxuriously, lifting her arms over her head and raising one knee. Slowly Wash pressed her leg down flat on the bed and reached one hand to cup her buttocks. Then he rose over her and positioned himself at her entrance.

“Wash…”

“Shhhh. We have to do this quietly.”

He entered her with one slow, deep thrust and she could not help smiling. “Next time,” she murmured, “I wish to make all the noise I want.” She arched her back, taking him even deeper, and when he sucked in his breath she pressed her fingers against his lips.