Cactus Flower (31 page)

      
How
had he, a strong and independent man who knew better than to allow a
woman to determine his happiness, sunk so low? He didn’t have a clue,
but he didn’t like it.

      
As
Patsy rinsed out the mugs and his plate at the sink, Nick leaned across
the table and took Eulalie’s hand. He resented her expression of alarm.
Nevertheless, he forged onward, “You sure you want me to leave? Are
you going to be all right?”

      
She
gave him one of her more brilliant smiles. “I’ll be fine. Thank
you, Nick.”

      
“You
sure?”

      
“I’m
sure.”

      
“You
won’t have another bad dream?”

      
Retrieving
her hand, she hugged herself. “I’m … pretty sure I won’t.”

      
He
made a decision. If she kicked him out on his ear, so be it. He gave
her a scowl that he hoped curled her liver. “Nuts. You’re worried.
I’ll stay.”

      
To
his surprise, she didn’t instantly bristle and lash out at him. Rather,
she appeared grateful—unless that was his imagination. She said, “Thank
you, Nick,” and he guessed he wasn’t imagining things. His heart
felt lighter.

      
The
two of them retired to bed, where Eulalie subsided into his arms as
if she were a soft and cuddly kitten instead of a prickly pear. Nick
decided he’d worry about the state of his heart and sanity later.
Everything felt too right just then for such dismal contemplations.

* * * * *

      
Eulalie
was getting mighty tired of singing at the Rio Peñasco Opera House.
She didn’t mind singing, but she hated having to parade herself in
front of a roomful of salivating men night after night. Her only consolation
was that Nick was there. Every night. Sometimes Junius came with him,
but Nick himself never, ever allowed her to be alone anymore before
that mob.

      
Her
love for Nick grew every night when she looked out over her whistling,
stomping audience and saw him, eyeing her audience as if daring any
one of them to step out of line. No one ever did. She considered this
a most unfortunate circumstance—not that the men were behaving themselves,
but that she loved Nick Taggart more every day.

      
It
became a habit for the Gibb sisters to have dinner with Nick and Lieutenant
Gabriel Fuller—sometimes Junius joined them—and then Nick would
walk Eulalie over to the Opera House while Fuller—and sometimes Junius—sat
on what passed as the back porch of the little adobe house and chatted,
until the men went home.

      
“I’m
sure you’d rather be alone with Gabriel, Patsy,” Eulalie said one
day as she set the table while Patsy stirred the savory stew she was
preparing for their evening meal. She had cornbread baking in the oven.

      
Patsy
laughed softly. “I don’t mind, and neither does Gabriel. In fact,
Gabriel has told me more than once that he honors Nick and Junius for
being such good guardians for us. He says he feels guilty that he has
to be away so much, attending to his duties at the fort.”

      
Eulalie
noticed that her sister’s cheeks had turned a pretty rosy pink, and
she wasn’t sure if the lieutenant or the kitchen’s heat was responsible.
She suspected the former. In truth, Gabriel and Patsy seemed to have
formed quite a bond. Eulalie prayed that Gabriel wouldn’t turn out
to be a false hope. So far, he appeared to be solid as a rock, but Eulalie
knew better than to assume anything when it came to men.

      
Or
women, either, she supposed. The notion surprised her. But Nick had
let slip enough tidbits from his childhood to make her realize that
men weren’t the only rats in the world.

      
Damn
his stepmother and those rotten stepsisters of his anyhow! If it weren’t
for them, Nick might have asked Eulalie to marry him ere this.

      
The
thought almost made her drop the plate she held.

      
Good
Lord, she didn’t mean that! Did she?

      
“No,”
she murmured aloud. “I didn’t.”

      
“Beg
pardon?”

      
Realizing
she’d spoken out loud, Eulalie hastened to say, “Nothing. Nothing
at all.”

      
But
it wasn’t nothing. It was something, and that something was completely
deplorable. Eulalie Gibb did
not
need to be married in order
for her life to be complete. Such thinking was not merely old fashioned,
but faulty into the bargain. All Eulalie had to do was look around her
if she found herself doubting it. Why, when she lived in New York City,
she might have searched for three weeks before she found a husband who
was worth his salt. Even here in Rio Peñasco, an outpost of the frontier,
where one would expect men to feel a greater responsibility toward their
wives and families than men did back East, she could see evidence that
such wasn’t always the case.

      
Anyhow,
she and Nick Taggart had nothing in common. True, they seemed to share
a similar sense of humor. And she’d also discovered that they enjoyed
the same books, which had amused her at first. She hadn’t believed
anyone living out here in the middle of nowhere could read at all, much
less read for pleasure. But Nick did. What’s more, he shared with
her. When he and Junius received a shipment of books from San Francisco,
he’d immediately brought over a copy of
The Picture of Dorian Gray
for her and Patsy to enjoy. When they were through with it, Nick had
swapped
Dorian
for Arthur Conan Doyle’s latest compilation
of Sherlock Holmes stories.

      
She
was still mulling over the insanity of falling in love with a man who
abominated the very thought of marriage when Nick knocked at the kitchen
door, and her heart soared. Stupid heart. To make up for it, she was
short with him when she greeted him. In point of fact, she didn’t
speak at all, but merely glared at him and stepped aside to let him
enter.

      
He
eyed her warily as he removed his hat and came inside.

      
“Good
evening, Nick,” Patsy called from the stove, where she was scooping
stew into a serving dish.

      
“How-do,
Miss Patsy?” Taking a wide path around Eulalie, he marched to the
front door and hung his hat on the stand he’d built for the purpose.

      
Eulalie
huffed and followed him. Drat the man! Here she was spoiling for a fight,
and he was trying to avoid her. He turned away from the hat rack, saw
her standing there with her hands on her hips, and he rolled his eyes.
Eulalie resented that.

      
“What
did I do now?” he asked in a resigned, world-weary tone of voice.

      
“What
do you mean by that?” she demanded, knowing as she said it that she
was being unreasonable.

      
“You’re
in a fuss.”

      
“I
am
not
in a fuss!”

      
“Whatever
you say.” And he walked around her to go into the kitchen.

      
The
evening didn’t get any better after Gabriel Fuller arrived. He and
Patsy were as cozy as two lovebirds together. Now he, Eulalie thought
bitterly, didn’t seem to mind showing his affection for a woman.
He
didn’t seem to think that all women were sly and untrustworthy.
He
didn’t even care that Patsy, the object of his attentions,
was badly scarred.

      
Neither
did Nick, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that Eulalie Gibb,
a woman who until recently, had believed herself solid, sensible, and
infinitely sane, had allowed herself to care deeply for a man who didn’t
care deeply for her. It was a lowering realization, and she didn’t
like it one little bit.

      
Unfortunately,
she couldn’t seem to do anything about it. Her heart refused to be
dictated to by her brain. She wished the two would coordinate better.
They always had in the past. Neither her heart nor her brain had suffered
a single qualm when she’d married sweet Edward Thorogood. She should
have thought they’d function better as she grew older and gained experience,
but they clearly didn’t, drat them.

      
She
endeavored to maintain a cheerful demeanor with Patsy and Gabriel during
supper. She couldn’t seem to help being cold to Nick, probably because
she felt somehow cheated by him—which was ridiculous, and she knew
it. Understanding her own culpability only aggravated her further and
made her snappish. It occurred to her that Nick couldn’t win with
her that night, and that made her angrier yet.

      
The
most annoying circumstance of all was that Nick seemed merely amused
by her foul mood. He was impeccably polite to her all during the meal,
and spoke kindly to Patsy, and was even gracious to Gabriel, which was
a departure. Nick generally treated the handsome lieutenant with some
degree of condescension.

      
But
the uncomfortable—for Eulalie, although everyone else seemed to enjoy
it—meal ended at last, and Nick waited patiently while Eulalie donned
her hat and grabbed a shawl. They set out for the Opera House in silence,
Eulalie stamping along the dirt road next to Nick, who was perfectly
relaxed and comfortable, curse him.

      
He
left her in her dressing room. She got the impression he was eager to
escape her bad temper, and she had an irrational impulse to throw something
at him.

      
“What
in the world is wrong with you tonight, Eulalie Gibb?” she demanded
of her reflection in the mirror.

      
But
she knew the answer to her question. She was feeling persecuted and
abused because she’d fallen in love with Nick Taggart.
How the
mighty have fallen
, she mused as she wriggled into her tight sapphire-blue
costume with the dyed-to-match ostrich feathers. The blue went well
with her eyes, and she harbored the no-doubt futile hope that Nick would
be impressed with her looks. Not that he hadn’t seen enough of her
often enough to know what she looked like. And if he hadn’t fallen
madly in love with her by this time, she didn’t suppose seeing her
all gussied up tonight would tip the scale.

      
Frustrated
almost beyond bearing, she hurled one of her high-topped shoes across
the room. It banged against the far wall with a satisfying thwack, and
she decided that she felt calm enough to perform. She’d allow herself
another tantrum later.

Chapter Fourteen
 

Nick didn’t have any idea
in the world why Eulalie was mad at him. Not that she needed a reason.
Nick had learned long, long ago that women were totally irrational and
prone to behave in odd ways for no discernible motive.

      
This
fit of temper on Eulalie’s part kind of surprised him, though. In
spite of their rocky beginnings—which, he’d finally admitted to
himself, weren’t entirely her fault—he’d begun to think of her
as a woman unlike the others he’d known in his life. And, although
he hated to own up to it, it would break his heart to discover she was
just like the other members of her sex.

      
“Hell,”
he muttered as he trotted down the stairs to the saloon. Violet greeted
him warmly.

      
“Never
see you anymore, Nicky,” she purred, rubbing her bosom against his
arm.

      
“Yeah,
I guess not,” Nick said noncommittally. He didn’t want to tell Violet
that she wouldn’t see him again, either, in the way she meant. After
having begun his affair with Eulalie, the notion of bedding another
woman didn’t appeal to him. Which was one more indication that he’s
lost his mind, he supposed. Shit.

      
“I
miss you, Nick,” Violet said wistfully.

      
“Aw,
hell, Violet, you see me all the time.” He knocked on the polished
mahogany bar and Cletus Bagwell appeared before him. “Sarsaparilla,
Cletus.”

      
“I
swear Nick, have you stopped drinking, too?” Violet’s big brown
eyes widened.

      
Yes,
he had, actually, because he wanted to be fully aware of his surroundings
while Eulalie was performing. And even while she wasn’t. If anything
happened to Eulalie—God forbid—Nick was determined that it wouldn’t
be his fault. “Yeah, I reckon I have kind of given up the booze,”
he muttered, grabbing the foaming glass Cletus set before him.

      
Dooley
Chivers, his ever-present cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth,
moseyed over. Nick suspected Dooley wanted to get Violet mingling again
since she wasn’t going to make any money off Nick that evening. Or
any other girl, he thought with a sigh. Damn, it was pathetic what had
happened to him since he met Eulalie. No booze. No other women. Hell,
he might as well marry the female and put himself out of circulation
forever.

      
“‘Evening,
Nick.”

      
Horrified
by his last thought, Nick didn’t respond to Dooley’s salutation
immediately.

      
Marry?
Him? Nick Taggart? The notion was so appalling, he had to swallow a
couple of times before he got his voice to work. “‘Evening, Dooley,”
he said at last in somebody else’s voice.

      
“You
sick tonight, Nick?”

      
Nick
swallowed again. “What? Sick? Hell, no.” He’d gone insane, was
what the matter was. Holy Moses. If he were a Roman Catholic, Nick knew
he’d be crossing himself.