Cactus Flower (8 page)

      
After
what seemed like hours of wakefulness, which Eulalie spent alternately
praying for her safety, praying for Patsy’s safety, trying to remember
Edward’s sweet face—which had an unfortunate tendency to waver and
dissolve into the face of Nick Taggart—and wishing she had Nick Taggart
with her in bed, Eulalie finally fell asleep. The blissful condition
lasted until a particularly loud noise from the hallway jerked her awake.

      
Sitting
up and hugging the sheet to her modestly covered bosom, her heart slamming
against her ribcage like waves at the Jersey shore, Eulalie tried to
shake leftover strands of sleep out of her brain. Another loud noise
made her start. This one sounded like a dozen bowling balls falling
down several flights of stairs. Understanding that this was unlikely,
but also quite curious, Eulalie glanced at the clock on her bedside
table, saw that it was after three in the morning, and deduced that
it might be safe to investigate the source of those unsettling sounds.
Probably all the men who’d been drinking in the saloon downstairs
had either drunk themselves into a stupor or gone home by that time.

      
She
waited what seemed a prudent interval after the last loud noise before
she crawled out of bed, grabbed the robe she’d thrown down at its
foot, put it on, went to the door, unlatched it, opened it six inches,
and peeked outside. She’d taken the precaution of putting on her spectacles
since she didn’t care to be surprised if anything untoward lurked
in the hallway.

      
It
was dark out there. She couldn’t see a thing. Eulalie cleared her
throat softly. “Mr. Taggart?”

      
Nick
Taggart’s voice came to her out of the gloom. “Yeah?”

      
He
sounded grumpy. Oh, dear. “Um … I heard a big noise. It … ah …
woke me up.”

      
“Yeah?
You’re lucky you were able to get to sleep at all.”

      
She
hoped he wasn’t going to be fussy about having to stay up all night
in the hallway to protect her. It had been his suggestion, after all.
Eulalie determined it would be better not to remind him. “Yes. I suppose
so. Um … is everything all right?”

      
“Sure.
Everything’s fine and dandy. I just threw Gus Nichols down the stairs.”

      
Aha.
So that was it. She gulped. “Oh.”

      
“Gus
is an all right sort of fellow, but he don’t take hints.”

      
“Oh.”

      
After
a pause, Nick said, “You probably better go back to bed now.”

      
“Yes.
Thank you.” Although she wasn’t certain why she was being so cautious,
Eulalie moved as softly and quietly as she could when she closed her
door and latched it. She hadn’t bothered to light a candle before
she left her bed, so she had to feel her way back to it.

      
Sporadic
scuffles continued to filter through the door to her ears, and it occurred
to Eulalie that, while she and Patsy had read everything they could
about the West and the people dwelling therein, they might possibly
have underestimated the perils the West contained for youngish, single
females. This might be especially true for females who were perceived
as belonging to a profession not generally considered respectable. She
took a few moments to decry the unfairness of life, but knew they were
wasted. Whether it was fair or not, life was life, and it had to be
dealt with.

      
Therefore,
she pondered the man stationed outside her door and allowed as to how
she might possibly have made a mistake with him. Not that she knew at
the time that Nick Taggart would prove to be a big, lusty male with
protective instincts. For all she’d known when they’d first encountered
one another, he might have been as mad as his uncle.

      
She
knew better now, or thought she did. One could never be absolutely certain
about these things, and he still might prove himself to be a brute.
Until she knew for sure, it might be worthwhile to mend a couple of
fences as regarded Mr. Taggart. If it became necessary for Eulalie and
Patsy to seek more protection than their weapons and wits could give
them, it looked to her as though Nick Taggart was at the top of the
list of candidates.

      
Eulalie
huffed once, peeved that such a drastic possibility might eventuate—and
all because of a fiend like Gilbert Blankenship—then reminded herself
that life was merely life and didn’t have it in for her or Patsy in
particular. She said a silent prayer that Edward, if his spirit lingered
anywhere, would forgive her and understand.

      
Then
she fingered her Colt Lightning on the night stand, and made sure her
Ladysmith was nearby and her knife in its sheath under her pillow—just
in case—and tried to get to sleep again.

      
Eventually
she did.

* * * * *

      
Long
before dawn, Nick was cursing himself as a damned fool. It wasn’t
his lookout some prissy city girl was too stupid to prepare herself
for rigors of the West before she ventured into it. Miss Eulalie Gibb
was nothing to him but a pain in the neck, and here he was, giving up
an entire night for her—and without even the benefit of enjoying her
favors, if she had any. So far, it didn’t appear likely, although
he recalled the softness of her skin and the fullness of her breasts
with something damned near akin to longing, idiot that he was.

      
And
why? Why was he stuck here in the damned hall when he might be home
sleeping peacefully—or having a nice romp with Violet? Because he’d
succumbed to the irresistible urge to protect a female.
Damn
it! He’d believed he’d overcome his tendency to harbor chivalrous
impulses years earlier. The good Lord knew he’d tried hard enough.

      
But
no. Here he was, sitting in a hard chair and playing knight in shining
armor to protect a female whom he didn’t like and who didn’t like
him.

      
“Nick,”
a thick voice said. “How’s about you take this gold eagle and lemme
into that li’l lady’s room for a few minutes.”

      
Nick
chuffed out an irritated breath. “No can do, Sam. Miss Gibb’s not
for sale. I already told you that downstairs.”

      
“Aw,
Nicky, be a sport.”

      
“Get
the hell out of here, Sam.” No use being polite. Sam didn’t care,
and Miss Gibb wouldn’t appreciate it.

      
“But
Nicky.”

      
Nick
allowed the front legs of his chair to hit the floor—he’d been leaning
back against the wall, as if that would offer him a measure of physical
comfort, which it didn’t—grabbed Sam Bollard by his collar, turned
him around, and shoved him back towards the stairs. He didn’t expect
he’d have to heave Sam down the stairs as he’d had to do with Gus,
because Sam wasn’t as stupid as Gus. After all, Nick had been working
as a blacksmith and farrier ever since his father died fifteen years
earlier. He had muscles in places Gus hadn’t even heard of, and he
was stronger than just about any other man in town except for his uncle
Junius.

      
Speaking
of Junius, Nick hoped Sheriff Wallace would keep him in jail overnight,
because Nick couldn’t be in two places at once, and he’d committed
himself to playing guard dog for Miss Gibb, fool that he was. If Junius
got out of the jug and did something else stupid, he’d be on his own,
and Nick owed him too much to be comfortable with that, even though
Junius’ inability to handle liquor vexed Nick sometimes.

      
When
he was sure Sam was gone for good, Nick sat back down in his chair,
leaned the back against the wall, and tried to catch a nap. It was a
difficult thing to do, and not merely because the chair didn’t make
a very good bed. Nick was annoyed with himself because he couldn’t
get Eulalie Gibb out of his mind. Actually, it wasn’t his mind that
was affected, damn it. And there wasn’t a blasted thing he could do
about his state of sustained arousal, either, because he’d been a
fool and told Dooley he’d protect the new merchandise.

      
Nick
couldn’t recall the last time he’d gone and done something so damned
stupid.

      
“Hey,
Nick,” came a whisper from out of the dark. “How’s about you let
me see that little gal for a minute or two.”

      
Sighing,
Nick let the front legs of his chair down, stood, and dealt with another
fellow too stupid—or too titillated—to take no for an answer.

      
*
* * * *

      
Since
Eulalie couldn’t think of a good reason not to, and she also had ulterior
motives, she adopted a cheerful expression when she prepared to leave
her room the next morning, praying she’d be able to find another place
to stay, and the sooner the better.

      
Therefore,
she dressed with care, selecting a sober gray gown and pinned a lovely
confection of a hat onto her hair. Because she’d read that parasols
were a necessity to a lady’s complexion here in the territory, she
picked hers up and hung it over her arm. Pausing at the door, she sucked
in a deep breath and prepared to greet the day—and whatever else lay
in wait to pounce on her out there in the world.

      
As
she had anticipated, what lay in wait for her was Nick Taggart, leaning
back in a hard-backed chair, heavy-eyed, cranky, with his arms folded
over his chest, dark stubble decorating his chin, and a frown on his
face that made him look as if he’d welcome the opportunity to pounce
on someone, most likely her. Eulalie gazed upon him in dismay. If he
was as crabby as he looked, her ulterior motive might be difficult to
achieve. Nick gazed back at her with antipathy.

      
“Oh,
my, Mr. Taggart, you look as if you didn’t sleep a wink last night.”

      
“I
wonder why,” he growled.

      
Eulalie
felt her lips tighten and endeavored to retain her smile. “I’m very
sorry you had such a disagreeable night. Perhaps if you will be kind
enough to introduce me to the lady whom you mentioned yesterday, I might
make more suitable arrangements for my lodging.”

      
“Huh.”
The front legs of the chair Nick had been sitting in thumped on the
floor, and he rose, frowning magnificently. Slamming his hat on his
dark hair, which was mussed this morning, probably because of his disturbed
night, he said, “Yeah, I’ll take you there right now,” and held
his arm out to indicate the direction in which he expected her to walk.

      
If
Eulalie had not exactly forgotten overnight what a splendid specimen
of masculinity Nick Taggart was, the reality of him made the breath
catch in her throat. She didn’t approve of this reaction, and she
frantically tried to recall Edward’s classical features to her mind’s
eye. She failed, although she did manage to suppress her urge to rise
up on her toes, remove Nick’s hat from his head, and run her fingers
through his tumbled locks.

      
She
was only suffering from fatigue, she told herself, although she suspected
she might be a victim of self-deception. She suppressed a sigh, “Did
you say this woman’s name is Johnson?”

      
“Yeah.”

      
Eulalie
took another deep breath and tried again. “Thank you for guarding
my door last night, Mr. Taggart.”

      
“Yeah,”
he said. “Sure.”

      
He
was making it very difficult for her to engage him in polite conversation.
She thought perhaps he’d appreciate a bit of humor. “Did you have
to throw anyone else down the stairs?”

      
“No.”

      
Very
well. So humor was out. “It was very kind of you to watch out for
me.”

      
“Huh.”

      
Annoying
man! Well, Eulalie wasn’t going to let him spoil her day. She hadn’t
met a man yet who wasn’t a fool for flattery—except, of course,
Edward, who had been perfect in every way. Eulalie thrust aside the
niggling voice in her head reminding her that Edward had been a trifle
on the spindly side. A man’s physique had nothing to do with his character,
she told herself. Nevertheless, judicious appreciation of his musculature
might be used to win a man over, if he believed a woman to be enamored
of his physical traits. Not that Eulalie would ever be swayed by so
unimportant an aspect of a fellow’s makeup as his muscles.

      
It
was certainly warm in this revolting backwater. Eulalie wished she’d
thought to bring along her fan.

      
However,
that was nothing to the purpose, and she had work to do. Therefore,
she said, “I imagine none of the men in town would dare challenge
you, Mr. Taggart. You’re so big and strong.” She contemplated batting
her eyelashes at him, but decided against it. No matter how much of
a rugged westerner Mr. Nick Taggart might be, Eulalie sensed that he
was neither stupid nor a man to be easily manipulated by such an overt
display of her charms. This was especially true since they hadn’t
exactly got off to a good start with each other.

      
From
the way he looked at her, anyone would think she’d just told him to
jump out a third-story window—not that there were any buildings that
tall in this godforsaken place. “Yeah,” he said. “Right.”

      
Eulalie
had been through a good deal of late. It had cost her a measure of self-respect
to be coy with Mr. Taggart, since coyness was not as much a part of
her character as was her sharp tongue. Her temper snapped. “For heaven’s
sake, Mr. Taggart, anybody would think I’d spent last night torturing
you! Can’t you at least be civil?”