Lady Lavender (16 page)

W
ash woke with a start when Rooney tramped into his room.

“Heard you was feelin' kinda puny.”

Wash didn't bother to open his eyes. “Better now. Mrs. Rose made me some tea.”

“That's some woman,” Rooney said softly. “One in a million.”

“Make that two in a million. Jeanne's mighty unusual, too.”

Rooney was quiet for a long minute. “Wash, when you figure on movin' on to Gillette Springs?”

“Two or three days. I want to get the rails laid all the way through the Cut we're blasting.”

“You mind if I lay out my pallet in here tonight? Jeanne and Little Miss are—”

“Sure.” His chest felt warm all at once, as if filled with light knowing she was just across the hall and not
out at the bunkhouse tonight. Maybe he'd see her at breakfast.

Rooney lit the kerosene lamp and Wash rolled over, away from the light. He heard the older man flap open his rolled-up pallet and mutter to himself as he straightened the blanket edges. Wash drifted toward sleep thinking about Rooney, how much he owed the older man, how much he valued his friendship. He wondered if he'd ever told him that.

His last thoughts before sleep were about Jeanne, how beautiful her voice was when she read to her daughter in French. And what a maddeningly independent, stubborn woman she was.

He woke the next morning still thinking about her. Rooney had already rolled up his bedroll and leaned it in the corner. Wash guessed he'd already be at breakfast in the dining room downstairs.

And so would Jeanne.

He bounded off the bed, grabbed a clean shirt out of the bureau drawer, splashed water on his face and combed his tumbled hair off his face with his fingers. The mirror over the chest reminded him he hadn't shaved in two days; today would make it three. Couldn't be helped; he was in a hurry. He wanted to see Jeanne more than he wanted to spend time scraping off his whiskers.

He reached the staircase before he finished tucking in his shirt, clattered down the steps and strode into the dining room.

No Jeanne. Not at the breakfast table. Not out on the front porch. He gobbled down his eggs and toast and
marched down to the livery stable. Her gray horse was gone. He'd missed her. Disappointment eroded a twisting path through his belly, but he had a job to do out at Green Valley. He saddled up his horse and headed out to the site.

Rooney was already there, his sleeves rolled up, stacking wood for the Chinese cook. “Sky looks bad,” he said. “Storm comin'.”

Wash studied the lowering black clouds overhead. Tinged with a dark purple-gray, they pressed down on the land like the miasma of heavy smoke he'd seen on battlefields.

“Think the Cut you're blastin' will wash out?” Rooney queried.

“Not if the rain holds off awhile and we can get it shored up.” He glanced again at the sky with a sinking feeling.

The first splatter of rain came just before noon.

 

“
Maman,
why are you frowning?” Manette patted Jeanne's forearm with her small, sticky hand. “It makes your face look all wrinkled up, like Rooney's.”

Jeanne stabbed another lavender stem into the wreath growing under her unsteady hands. It was good to be home, even if it was just a bunkhouse.

Why was she frowning? Because of that maddening man, Wash Halliday. She knew he cared about her; a man like Wash did not seduce women just for diversion.

She knew other things about him, as well. He was stubborn. He was wary of involvement. And stubborn.
Wash was a wounded bear who had unexpectedly stumbled into her life. He was the most stubborn man she had ever encountered.

What was she to do about him?

“Maman?”

“Oh! I am sorry,
chou-chou.
My thoughts were wandering.”

Jeanne started an imaginary list.
What to do about Wash.

First, she could forget about him. That would be like ripping her heart out, but she could try.

Second, she could pursue him.
Jamais!
A well-brought-up woman never pursued a man. Yes, she wanted Wash. But not if he was hesitant or unsure about what
he
wanted.

Third—

“
Maman!
You are wandering again.” She pointed at the wreath.

“Ah, you are right. What was it you asked me?”

But Manette had been patient long enough. She dropped the fronds of lavender she had been weaving, stomped up the step into the bunkhouse and slammed the flimsy door behind her.

Jeanne sighed and snatched up her half-woven wreath. She wished Rooney had not ridden out to Green Valley this morning. He'd mumbled something about saving Wash from himself and then sauntered off to the livery for his horse.

What did that mean, “saving Wash from himself”? Her heart skipped.
Mon Dieu,
was he doing some
thing dangerous?
Bon.
Another reason to forget about him—he could get himself killed.

“Third,” she said aloud, adding to her list. “Third, I could…” Ah, no. She could not do that, even if she wanted to. Move back to New Orleans and forget she'd ever met Wash Halliday?
Never.
It had cost her too much to come out here to Oregon in the first place.

Besides, she did not want to go back to New Orleans. She found she liked Oregon. The townspeople had been slow to warm up, but that had been mostly her own fault. She had preferred to keep to herself. Ah, back to her list!

Fourth, she could marry someone else. Manette needed a father, it was true; but this was not about Manette, was it?

This was about the longing Jeanne felt whenever she thought about life with that unreachable man. Her very bones ached for him, but she could not wait for him to declare himself. Her life must move on.

Fifth, what if she decided never to marry anyone? She, too, had struggled to survive a crippling relationship before she had come to Smoke River.
But I will pine for this man, Wash Halliday, for the rest of my life. Never once have I pined for Henri.
Still, it was not enough to want a man, to hunger to be part of his life. Either she was part of it, or she was not.

And with Wash, she was not.

She must move on, in spite of him.

Automatically she wound the lavender fronds in and out, tighter and tighter; when she glanced down at her apron-covered lap, she was surprised to find the wreath
was completely finished. More than finished, it was overstuffed!

She grabbed a handful of lavender stalks and started on another wreath because she needed to keep her hands busy.
Wash Halliday, you are responsible for my frown and for my flittering thoughts and for the ache in my heart.

She was trying hard to understand, and perhaps she did, at least a little. A hurt bear looked first to his wounds; he did not join with others until he started to heal.

Did bears stay with each other after they mated?
The thought made her laugh aloud. Of course they did not. Bears were animals; it was human beings who made commitments.

But not a man like Wash Halliday. She bit her lip. Wash was using his job as a shield.

Sixth, she could wait. She could wait until this man, whom she had accepted into her body, had healed his wounds and rejoined life.

Non,
she could not just wait. She must move on, for herself and for Manette.

Ah, another list: Things Wash needed to learn.

First, he needed to learn that he was not alone in having suffered wounds of the heart.

He needed to learn that life would always have risks; that is what life
was.
Some risks turned out to be devastating; some were pain-filled; and some were glorious while they lasted. She had known all three: her marriage to Henri had been bitter. Birthing Manette had been so
agonizing she had wished to die. But her few nights with Wash had been filled with wonder and joy and…

She jerked her mind back to the list.

He needed to learn that it took strength to be happy. He did not lack strength; the man was simply reluctant to reach out his paw—ah, no, his hand—again.

What should I do?

She bent her head over a spray of lavender as the truth dawned.

Nothing. She would do nothing. A man captured against his will was not what she wanted. She wished for a man who wanted to join his life with hers; a man who was willing to fight for that.

Voila!
Another wreath completed! At this rate she should start looking for a suitable farmstead to purchase.

“Manette?” Jeanne jumped to her feet, scattering bits of stems onto the ground. “Come out,
chou-chou.
My frown is gone! I have decided something.”

 

“You say you want to buy a farm, Miz Nicolet?” The banker, Will Rasmussen, looked at Jeanne doubtfully. “Well, yes, there's a couple of places up for sale, but…” He coughed and cleared his throat. “How do you plan to pay for it?”

Jeanne jolted upright. “With money, of course. I have now money of my own.”

Rasmussen scratched his chin. “How much money?”

“How much is the farm?” she snapped.

The banker raised both hands and took a step backward. “You want to ride out and see the place?”

“But of course,” she said stiffly. “I do not intend to purchase a pig in a pot.”

“Poke,” he muttered under his breath, trying to squash a smile. “Pig in a poke.”

He cast a wary look out of the bank window where dark clouds roiled overhead. “Better hurry, then. Looks like there's a storm on the way.”

It was a quick trip. Jeanne saw all she needed to see in an hour and she and Manette and Mr. Rasmussen headed back to town in the banker's horse-drawn buggy. Before they reached Smoke River, it began to rain. Not just rain, Jeanne noticed. Fat drops as big as rosebuds pelted down. Water sluiced out of the purple-black sky as if dumped from a washtub, drenching both her and Manette before Mr. Rasmussen could reach the stable.

When she climbed down from the buggy, she had to wring out the hem of her bombazine skirt. The knitted wool shawl she wore over her head and shoulders dripped water down the back of her neck and smelled like a wet sheep. And Manette's poor bonnet and the new red coat Verena Forester had sewed for her last week were sopping wet.

“It will dry out,” Jeanne assured her daughter. “We will hang it near the stove in the bunkhouse.”

“Why don't we go see Uncle Rooney at Mrs. Rose's house?”

“Because Rooney is not there,
chou-chou.
He is helping Wash build his railroad. Besides, I left my wreaths and my lavender and my ribbons and thread at the bunkhouse. We will be quite warm and dry, you will see.”

The bunkhouse was dry. The roof did not leak, but
the place was not warm. She stirred the fire and added more wood, but the small pine logs were damp and the flames sputtered and died.

For hours the rain slashed down onto the roof without letup and a rising wind drove it sideways against the walls. It sounded like the
rat-tat-tatting
of a Gatling gun. The memory of a battle near New Orleans sent a shiver up her spine.

How would the storm affect Wash's blasted-out railroad bed through Green Valley? Rooney had explained what he was trying to do at the site; Jeanne found it unbelievable. Just imagine, cutting through solid rock at the end of the valley! She could not bear to envision what her little farm must look like now with a huge black steam engine puffing its way through her ravaged lavender field.

Oh, everything was all wrong now! When Wash had tramped into her life, her world had turned upside down.

Jeanne bit the inside of her cheek and raised her head. Everything was
not
all wrong. She must put all her efforts now toward the new farm she had bought just three hours ago. Life must go forward.

With or without Wash Halliday.

 

Wash studied the horizon, then lifted his gaze to the sky, which was growing blacker by the minute. The wind picked up, lifting the edge of his saddle blanket and beginning to moan through the tall pines. Sam, standing a few feet away, threw his arms over his head at the noise. “Demons come,” he quavered. Still, he refused
to leave with the others when Wash sent the crew back to their rolling bunkhouse.

“Only see'd a sky like that once before, when we was at Fort Kearney,” Rooney said. “Remember?”

Wash gave a short nod. He'd never forget it. The rain had thundered down on their camp, the river had flooded and swept away the tents, the cook's stove and half the horses in its churning brown waters. When the water had receded, they'd dug eighteen horses and seven mules out of the mud. He suppressed a shudder. A rainstorm could be deadly.

There was no stream in Green Valley, so no danger of the tracks washing out. But at the Cut…

They rode down to inspect the area they had blasted through the day before, Sam riding double behind Rooney. The horses picked their way down following the newly laid iron tracks until they came to the Cut. Water poured over the rock from above, making a roaring noise.

“Sounds like a buffalo stampede,” Rooney shouted. “Don't look good.”

“Sam.” Wash spoke to the Chinese man clutching Rooney's middle. “You get all the explosive covered up?”

Sam's crooked white teeth flashed in a grin. “Yes, boss. Up early. All covered.”

Wash chuckled. The first thing the Orientals would think to save would be the explosives; like the fireworks they loved, setting off charges was high entertainment for the Chinese men.

“What else?” Wash inquired.

“Cook's stove. Roof leak in bunkhouse kitchen. And new shipment of logs for railroad ties.”

Again Wash laughed. First priority was explosives; food came second. Well, he acknowledged, he'd have done the same. He relaxed his tense shoulders.

“Good work, Sam. Doesn't look to me like the Cut site is threatened. We'll take the rest of the day off.”