Cactus Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (12 page)

      
Lee observed the extra attention and casually inquired of his boss, “What are you going to do with this pretty girl? She's rather small for you to ride,
mano.
”

      
Slade grunted. “As long as I have Polvo I don't need another horse, especially a runty filly like her, but she's fast and bright. Should make a helluva stock horse.”

      
Lee's face was alight. “Speaking of fast, bright females, I imagine you've seen me teaching Charlee how to ride on Liso. For a kid who had only her father's mule for a mount, she's becoming quite a good rider. She could use a horse of her own and I was thinking…”

      
“One runty filly for another, huh?” Slade grinned sardonically.

      
“It would make a good peace offering, amigo. You've been a real
bastardo
around her lately.” If Lee had any thoughts about the reasons for Jim's behavior, he did not volunteer them.

      
Slade only grunted and continued currying the little horse's gleaming coat.

      
The next afternoon Charlee backed out of the kitchen door with two steaming blackberry pies, hot and fragrant from the oven, one in each hand. Careful not to burn herself, she edged them onto the shady window ledge and then wiped her hands on her breeches.

      
“Those smell too good to be Weevils’ handiwork,” Slade ventured conversationally.

      
“Oh, I didn't see you,” Charlee said, whirling around to confront her nemesis. “No, I baked them. Picked the berries, too,” she added, as if daring him to jump on her for slacking off work again. These days there was always something eating him.

      
“Good. I've been real hungry for some blackberry pie. And one good turn deserves another. Come with me for a minute, Charlee. I have something to show you.” His face was grave.

      
Puzzled, but relieved that he was not going to yell at her, she followed him down to the corral. There in front of the large fenced enclosure stood a beautiful filly with paint markings of black, white, and mahogany, all saddled and waiting—for whom? she wondered. She had never seen the horse before, but she knew the men were in the process of training new remuda stock.

      
“Do you like her?” Slade's manner was casual as he reached out and patted the filly's nose affectionately.

      
“She's beautiful as an Ozark sunrise, 'n that's the truth,” Charlee breathed, her green cat's eyes alight with pleasure.

      
“She's yours,” he said, gently taking the reins and placing them in Charlee's hands.

      
“What? You can't...I can't…she isn't...” Charlee sputtered in amazement and consternation. “I could never afford a fine horse like this.”

      
“We caught her with that last herd of wild mustangs. Only cost was the time it took to break and train her. She belongs to you free and clear, Charlee.”

      
The last thing her prickly Missouri pride could stand was charity, especially from the likes of Jim Slade. “I know any wild horse that's broken and trained to saddle like this is worth a lot of money if you sell her. I can't accept such a gift,” she said primly, “but I do thank you.”

      
“Look”—Slade's voice was taking on an ominously grating tone now—“I own hundreds of horses, and if I want to give one insignificant filly away, I can damn well do it. You're riding Lee's gelding Liso now. You need a mount of your own.”

      
“That's different. We're friends and I just borrow Liso now 'n then. I can't accept charity from you,” she said with finality, although her hand had strayed to stroke the filly's velvety muzzle.

      
“It's not charity. I provide every other hand on Bluebonnet with horseflesh and you'll be no exception,” he thundered.

      
“I'm not a hand, just a cook's helper and cleaning girl. And sometimes I put game on the table,” she added puckishly. “Tell ya what, though,” she continued, cocking her head and looking up into his forbiddingly handsome face. “I'll work out payment for her—a year's supply of squirrel, rabbit, deer, and whatever else I bring in for supper in return for her. That seem fair?”

      
Grimly, Slade admitted defeat. “Yes, Charlee, that seems more than fair, although you do try a man's patience. Didn't you ever have graciousness explained to you?”

      
“Didn't you ever have independence explained to you?” she countered, and was rewarded with a rare, albeit grudging, smile from Jim.

      
“All right, Cat Eyes, be a Missouri mule. I can see why that tom took such a shine to you—not just that you both have green eyes. You're both too independent for your own good, too.”

      
When she smiled back at him, her face was luminous. Again he felt an urge to seize great handfuls of her hair and bury his face in its length, but as usual Charlee had it scraped into a bun. “Er... what will you name her?” he ventured, feeling for all the world like a schoolboy.

      
Charlee considered for a moment as she inspected the bright patches on the horse's shiny coat. “Patchwork,” she said simply. “As pretty and bright as one of Grandma McAllister's hand-sewn quilts.”

* * * *

      
Early in the morning, Slade encountered Charlee and Lee out for a ride, laughing and talking gaily. They waved to him and continued on their way. The boy had been an excellent teacher. Charlee handled her horse superbly, but not all the credit could go to Lee, nor to his own training of the filly. Charlee had exhibited an uncanny way with animals, large and small, from the first day she had arrived.

      
He fleetingly wished he was the one riding alongside her but quickly suppressed the idea and went on with his morning rounds. Charlee was a continual surprise and irritation whom it seemed had come to Bluebonnet just to turn his world upside-down. She was so damn proud, so self-reliant and seemingly innocent; yet he knew there could be no way in hell she got from Missouri to Texas without selling that sweet, slim body for passage. He was doubly certain of that since he had seen her frolicking naked in the water and singing bawdy songs. But now, she was skittish and feisty, preferring the company of two old men and a boy to his. As he urged Polvo into a canter, he swore under his breath, “As if I need the aggravation of getting tangled up with that little she-cat.”

      
Like Charlee, Jim had not been sleeping well for some time. Even his long, grueling day in the saddle didn't bring sufficient exhaustion for him to drift off easily that night. Then, he heard the faint squeak of Rosie's door opening. No, it wasn't Rosie's room anymore but Charlee's, he corrected himself grimly. Damn, that was the trouble. He needed a night in a first-class brothel. He missed Rosalie just as she had said he would. He heard soft footsteps padding downstairs and rolled over. What was that urchin up to now? A quarter hour ticked by and she had not returned. Too long to have gone to the privy. Swearing, he rolled out of bed and reached for his pants.

      
Charlee was engrossed in her book when a cool, gravelly voice startled her. “What do you think you're doing?” His eyes scanned the room, ascertaining that she was alone. She was wrapped in a cotton robe and curled up on the big sofa that seemed to envelop her. Her hair was down, secured in a long, thick pigtail. Her green cat's eyes seemed enormous, faintly frightened, an emotion he'd never associated with Charlee. “Well?” Impatience laced his tone.

      
She raised a book off her lap and held it clutched to her bosom, still speechless.

      
“What are you doing with that?” He strode across the room and took the copy of Robert Burns’
Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect
. Looking at the title he smirked. “You read this crap?”

      
Defensively she straightened. “I got readin'! I know what I'm doin’!”

      
He let out a snort of derision. “If you'd choose that dialect poet out of everything in this library, you haven't convinced me.”

      
“I'm Scottish, a McAllister, and proud of it.” She bristled like a small, pugnacious dog.

      
“I rest my case,” he said archly.

      
“I suppose you'd rather read Shakespeare or Dryden,” she replied suddenly. “I'll have you know my mama had me read all the Bard's plays and all Emerson's essays, and even Pope's,” she added in a bored voice.

      
“And I'll bet you find Marvell and Pepys much more titillating,” he said with a wicked grin.

      
Charlee let out a gasp, recalling in mortification how she had sneaked a copy of Samuel Pepys's unexpurgated diaries from her Grandfather McAllister's attic when she was barely old enough to understand barnyard facts of life. If she hadn't before she read it, she certainly did afterward!

      
Slade laughed now and sauntered over to the bookshelves. She watched his pantherish grace and noticed for the first time that he was barefoot, clad only in tight cotton breeches and an unbuttoned shirt. Suddenly, he turned and tossed a book at her.

      
She caught it deftly and flipped the title page open. It was the poems of William Blake.

      
“I prefer the
Songs of Experience
to the
Songs of Innocence
,” she said archly, closing the book.

      
“You would,” he replied scathingly. “I suppose you've also read Swift and, of course, Byron?”

      
“Of course,” she replied haughtily. “ ‘A Modest Proposal’ is one of my favorite essays. I do love satire as well as bawdry.”

      
He continued his search, reaching the high shelves from his position on the floor, she observed resentfully. She had been forced to resort to the ladder. Then, he pulled a slim volume down with a muffled chuckle. “If you like bawdy lyrics, let's see how you do with something genuinely sophisticated and sensuous, Charlee...”

      
He walked casually across the room and handed her the slim volume. It was John Keats's
The Eve of St. Agnes.
She felt a small tremor when his warm fingers touched hers.

      
“I take it you've never read Keats?” At her nod of admission, he smiled. “Well, you might find it a considerable cut above ‘Come to the Bower’. ” The minute the words escaped his lips he could have bitten his tongue! What had ever possessed him to admit to her that he'd been an interloper that afternoon?

      
It took a moment for his words to register. Then, Charlee’s face took on a storm-darkened aspect, and her deep green eyes fairly stabbed at him with fury. “You! You polecat, you damnable lowlife sneaky rattler—you spied on me, you...you saw me!” She spluttered in rage, unable to think of anything sufficient to describe her mortification.

      
Slade watched her erupt, feeling alternately guilty, then disgusted with her hypocrisy. He had scarcely seen anything plenty of other men hadn't seen before. “Cool off, Charlee. If you go skinny dipping and screech out bawdy songs at the top of your lungs, you should expect company.”

      
“Some company! A lecherous whoremonger,” she spat furiously. “If you think just because I'm sleeping in Rosalie Parker's room I'll be your mistress, well—”

      
“Don't flatter yourself,” he cut in scathingly and spun on his heel to leave as silently and swiftly as he had entered.

      
Charlee spent another perfectly miserable night, unable to sleep. She finally resorted in desperation to reading the Keats poem that she had brought up from the library with her. She refused to consider why she had not discarded the volume after Slade stalked out. Instead, she had clutched it unconsciously to her bosom and carried it with her to her room. By three a.m. she had finished
The Eve of St. Agnes.
Hating to admit she shared anything in common with Jim Slade, least of all this erotically enchanting poem, she nevertheless loved it. On a hot Texas night she drifted restlessly off to sleep with visions of two tragic lovers stealing away through a snowy English landscape.

      
The next morning Charlee was tired and miserable. How could she face Slade, knowing he had watched her cavorting naked in the water? No one had ever seen Chastity Charlene McAllister unclothed since she was a baby! She cringed to herself but doggedly pulled on her pants and knotted a baggy shirt over her midsection. Taking the long plait of hair, she wadded it behind her head and pinned it securely.

      
“I'll take Patchwork for a ride. That'll give me a chance to think,” she told herself. Resolutely, she headed downstairs, praying Slade was true to habit and long departed for the range. At least she wouldn't have to face him until supper.

      
When she entered the kitchen he was gone, but Lee was still sitting at the table with a cup of Weevils’ bitter black coffee in his hands. Looking up, he greeted her with a sunny smile that lifted her spirits. “Good morning,
chica
. You've slept late today. So did Jim. He just left a minute ago.”

      
“Lucky for me, then,” she snapped, her mood instantly plummeting at the mention of his name.

      
“Your humor is as foul as his. Maybe a change of scenery would help,
quien sabe
? I'm going to San Antonio for supplies. You've been wanting to buy some new cooking pots. Come with me?”

      
Once more Charlee's irrepressible good humor surfaced. “Sounds wonderful, Lee. I hardly got to see the town when the wagon train arrived. I'm sure it's full of interesting sights and people.”