Lady Lavender (9 page)

“Thought I'd have to patch you up, Wash.”

Wash barked out a half laugh. “Maybe next time.”

“Huh! Guess I'd better stock up on bandages. And whiskey,” he added with a grin.

Wash chuckled. All at once he realized how tired he felt, as if his legs had turned to lead. His hip hurt like hell.

“I'm getting too old for this,” he muttered.

“Get some sleep,” Rooney advised. “You got a carload of Chinese track layers comin' tomorrow.”

Wash groaned and turned away to see Jeanne and Manette starting for the wagon. He'd just see them safely back to MacAllister's bunkhouse and then…

He couldn't think clearly beyond that. Maybe he didn't want to.

W
ash guided the mare away from Jensen's barn and used the moon's light to pick out the path between the bare fields. Seated next to him on the wagon bench, Jeanne twisted to the side and leaned over Manette, who had wrapped herself in a soft quilt and curled up in the wagon bed. “Are you comfortable,
chou-chou?
”

“
Oui, Maman.
But I am sleepy. I have danced a long time with Monsieur Rooney.”

Beside her on the bench Wash chuckled. He lifted the reins but he was watching Jeanne and he dropped one leather line. “Damn,” he said under his breath. “Guess I'm a little shaky. Sorry the evening had to end in a fight.”

Jeanne reached a still-trembling hand to pull the quilt up over Manette's shoulders. “D-damn,” she repeated with a soft laugh. “I, too, am shaky.”

Wash shot her a quick look as he urged the horse and
wagon forward. Her face was white as flour, but she held her head high and looked straight ahead. She sure didn't show her feelings.

He could understand that. He rarely showed his own feelings, especially about a woman. Just one small shove would push him back into the safe cave he'd built. Feelings were scary things. And dangerous.

Jeanne settled her hands in her lap. “I do not like the West very much,” she announced.

Wash nodded. “Life out here can be hard. There's not many who can stick it out.”

“But I have nowhere else to go.”

“Would you want to go back to France?”

There was a long silence. “I do not know. My
maman
is now dead. Even the cottage where I grew up is gone.”

“Do you want to leave Smoke River?”

“I want a small piece of land to farm,” she said. “I will find one here.”

He heard the determination in her words but her voice said something else. She was scared. Not of Montez, but of being vulnerable. With looks like hers, he guessed she'd rebuffed a number of overamorous men. He'd fought Montez to protect her, but maybe she didn't need protecting. This woman seemed more concerned about finding farmland than avoiding the unwanted attention of a randy Spaniard.

Suddenly she pointed at something beside the path. “Look!”

An old abandoned plow sat in the stubbled field. Moonlight bathed the metal in silvery light, and Wash
slowed the horse to admire the picture it made against the dark earth.

“Pretty,” he remarked.

“Useful,” she said instantly. “I will come back for it tomorrow.”

“You want that old rusty thing?”

“
Oui,
I do want it.”

He flapped the reins to speed up. “Well, I'll be… What the he— What for?”

Her laugh rang out. “To plow with, of course!”

“Jeanne, is that all you think about, farming? Growing your lavender?”

“Ah, no,” she said slowly. “But it is of importance, you see, because of Manette.” She glanced over her shoulder at her sleeping child.
“Compris?”

No, he didn't
“compris.”
But maybe it didn't matter. Maybe he would never understand this woman beside him, but he knew one thing: the brush of her skirt against his thigh, the hint of her warm body underneath all those yards of calico, was enough to make his mouth dry and his palms sweaty.

He turned his face away and gulped in air that didn't smell of lilacs and something spicy. He wanted her. How he wanted her. He was so hard he ached. If he wasn't careful he'd forget all about his safe little cave.

He circled the mare around the bunkhouse and parked the wagon next to the wall. It was a relief to climb down and ease the turgid pressure from inside his jeans. He loosened the mare's cinch but left the horse hitched up to the wagon for Jeanne.

She rose with a swish of her skirt and waited. He
didn't dare lift her down from the bench; he knew he'd be unable to lay his hands on her waist and stop there. She'd be in his arms in a heartbeat and he doubted he could bring himself to release her. She'd feel the bulge in his jeans and she'd know everything.

And, dammit, if he kissed her, as he ached to do, he'd be a goner.

Instead he reached into the wagon bed and lifted the sleeping Manette into his arms, snugging the quilt close around her small form. Jeanne climbed down, unlocked the bunkhouse door and swung it wide for him. He heard a match rake across something—the stove top, he guessed—and then the glow of a kerosene lantern washed the small room in soft light. She held the lamp up high so he could see.

Wash angled his burden inside, feet first, then sent Jeanne a questioning look. She murmured something in French and pointed to the top bunk. He heaved the sleeping child up onto the waiting sheets and tucked the quilt around her.

Jeanne dipped water from a bucket into her speckled blue coffeepot, then turned toward Wash. In the flickering light his face looked set and stubborn. And his eyes, which were usually gray with flecks of dusty blue, were now almost black.

“Café?”
she asked quietly.

His mouth tightened. “No.”

“I make it anyway, for myself, so is no trouble.”

“No.” He turned away from her. “Thanks anyway,” he added, and moved toward the door.

Such a man. So strong and yet so gentle with Manette.
Why was he not that way with her? He had kissed her, she reflected. Twice, in fact. But both times he had been angry. She could not remember the circumstances, only the taste of his firm mouth on hers, the scent of his skin, smoky and sweet at the same time. She also remembered the look in his gaze when the kiss had ended—as if he'd been shot between the eyes.

Mon Dieu,
he was looking at her now in that same way.
Alors, do you not want him to look at you?
See all of her, see past the fear that she would not be able to feed her daughter, the pain of being uprooted from her home. And the determination that she knew thinned her lips into an unsmiling line.

They had danced close to each other tonight, so close that she could not read his expression without tipping her head back and breaking the spell. What was he thinking? What did he want?

She swallowed. What did
she
want?

He had reached the door now.
What did she want?
She wanted to matter to someone. To
him.

She stepped toward him and laid her hand on his arm. When he turned to face her, she uttered a single word. “Stay.”

Wash groaned softly. “You're sure you want me to?”

“
Oui,
I am sure.”

“Jeanne…Jeanne, you know I want you. Don't ask me to stay unless—”

“I am sure,” she repeated. “I have been sure for three days.”

He unfolded his fists and closed his fingers about her
shoulders, pulled her close and kissed her. He took his time, let his lips do all the talking that was needed—or maybe not needed. When he broke the kiss she felt a quiver of disappointment.
More. She wanted more.

She raised her face to his. He bent to blow out the lantern, then gathered her tight in his arms. “Where do you sleep?” he whispered.

“Below Manette. There.” She tipped her head toward the bottom of the bunk.

“We'll wake her.”

Jeanne shook her head. “We will not wake her.”

He lifted her into his arms, took a single step toward the bunk and then set her on her feet again. The next thing she knew he was cupping her breasts, then pressing her hips into his groin.

“Buttons?” he murmured.

She could not stop smiling into the dark.
“Oui.”

He gave a half groan, half chuckle. “Not
if,
Jeanne. I mean
where?
”

Without speaking she guided his hand to her throat, where the top button was hidden beneath a ruffle.

Wash let his fingers trail down the front of her dress. Twenty buttons. Twenty damned buttons. How many buttons did a woman need to close up a dress? And these were little tiny ones.

His fingers shook, but he began to slip the buttons free. When he was halfway to her waist, she lifted her hands to start on his muslin shirt. Under his knuckles he could feel her body's heat, feel her heart beating steadily as he worked his way down. His thumbs brushed across her breasts, and she moaned softly.

Her nipples hardened, and the instant he could open the bodice of her dress he slid his hands inside to touch her. She wore only a camisole underneath, tied with a ribbon bow. He jerked it free and smoothed his hands over her breasts, then moved around to her back to feel the small, lumpy bones of her spine, then back to cup the firm globes against his palms.

He bent to take one nipple in his mouth. She tasted sweet, like ripe cherries, like a ripe pomegranate he'd tasted once in Mexico. He closed his lips over the erect bud and heard her breath hiss inward.

Good. Maybe she was as starved for this as he was.

“Take my shirt off,” he whispered.

She undid the rest of the buttons quickly, pushed the fabric off his shoulders, and then her hands dropped to fumble with his belt buckle.

He gritted his teeth. He'd never last until he got her undressed; the drive to take her, to be inside her, was too hot and insistent. He lifted his head and forced his hands back to the little pearl disks that held her dress together all the way to her belly. When he had freed them all, her dress dropped to her feet. The loosened camisole followed.

He caught her hands, busy with the metal closings of his jeans, and lifted them against his bare chest. Quickly he shrugged his shirt off one shoulder, then tore the garment free.

She made a small sound and moved to the bed wearing only her lacy drawers. Wash shucked off his own drawers and reached for the tie at her waist. It came away
in his hand. He splayed his fingers over the subtle swell of her stomach, then over the curve of her buttocks.

For a moment he couldn't draw breath. She turned to face him and his throat closed up. She took one step forward and lifted her arms around his neck.

He could feel her naked body from his thighs to his chest. He caught her mouth under his and edged them to the bed.

Not much room in the bottom bunk. He wrapped his arms around her, pushed her down on the mattress, and rolled on top of her. He bit his lip. The mattress—her cornhusk mattress, he realized—made a scratchy rustle, and she choked off a laugh.

“Not funny,” he murmured. “Can't move around much.”

She blew out a long sigh. “Then don't.”

She arched upward and he forgot to breathe. He was poised right at her entrance. If she moved again he'd…

Then he was inside her, enveloped in velvety heat and softness, her hands urging him to thrust. He forgot all about the crackly mattress and did what she invited.

It was brief but intense. At his climax he kept himself from shouting aloud by biting down hard on his lower lip, but when her body began to spasm with her own release, she cried out and he covered her mouth with his.

Later, when their breathing returned to normal, they made love again, face-to-face, and slowly.

For hours afterward, Wash lay holding Jeanne in his arms, her warm body pressed against his, her head
nestled between his neck and his shoulder. He hadn't had a woman in four years, and yeah, he was more than a bit in need. But nothing—
nothing!
—had ever been like this. He felt different. Alive.

And scared like he'd never been before.

When the faint light through the gingham-curtained window shaded from gray to peach, he carefully edged away from her sleeping form, pulled on his jeans and shirt and carefully stepped out of the door carrying his boots in his hand.

J
eanne woke to find herself alone. She scrambled out of bed and flung open the door of the bunkhouse, but Wash's horse was no longer tied up beside the wagon. In its place was the old rusty plow she'd seen last night. He must have ridden back to find it and dragged it over to the bunkhouse after…after they had made love last night.

She studied the worn-out farm implement and smiled. That man was remarkable.
Formidable.
Wash Halliday paid attention to her with more than his body. A shiver of remembered pleasure danced into her belly. Most of all she remembered the small things: his hands in her hair, his low voice murmuring her name, his tongue stroking her intimate places. Never had she experienced such a night!

All at once she wanted to weep. She gazed up into the dazzling blue morning sky, wondering about the
man who had moved her so much. How did a man know when to thrust hard and when to take the time to draw things out?

Mon Dieu,
she wanted it all over again!

She gazed down at the plow resting against the bunkhouse wall. And how did he know this was exactly what she wanted to find on this glorious morning?

She pivoted and reentered the bunkhouse. “Manette? Wake up,
chou-chou.
After breakfast we must ride into town.”

 

Carl Ness, the mercantile owner, gave Jeanne a friendly smile. She had feared the townspeople at first, even Monsieur Ness. She struggled to speak their language, and they thought her prickly and unfriendly. She was not unfriendly; she was so frightened she could scarcely swallow. But that she could never admit.

Now Carl shook his graying head. “No, Miz Nicolet, haven't seen Colonel Halliday this morning. Might be he's still sleepin' over at Mrs. Rose's boardinghouse where he stays. I heard there was some kinda fracas out at Jensens' barn last night.”

“Ah, no, he cannot be sleep—” She bit her tongue just in time. Could he have left her bed and crawled into his own to get some real rest? Her cheeks grew warm.

“About your lavender wreaths, Miz Nicolet?”

“Ah, yes. I will bring my wreaths this afternoon.”

“And some more of them sachets?” he said eagerly. “My women customers keep askin' about them, and about the Lavender Lady, too. Seems they can't get
enough of your pretty little bags of good-smelling herbs, especially in this heat.”

Jeanne spun toward the front door. “I will bring some,” she called over her shoulder.

Outside on the walkway in front of the mercantile Manette was perched in a bent rocking chair, watching a ladybug crawl over her palm. “I saw Monsieur Rooney,” she said without moving her uplifted arm. “He went inside that place over there.” She pointed to the Golden Partridge saloon. “
Bon.
But we shall not bother him. Come, I have work to do.”

In the livery stable Jeanne gathered up an armload of lavender fronds from the towering wagon load they had brought in two days ago and carefully laid them in an empty chickenfeed sack Carl Ness had given her. She calculated quickly in her head. There would be enough for five or six wreaths plus six or eight small sachet bags.

“And now,” she announced to Manette, “we need some ribbon and…”

But Manette was down on her hands and knees scrabbling through the straw looking for crawling things. Jeanne shivered at the thought of her daughter's precious Spider Box. She watched her daughter's diligent search and realized that she must keep herself busy today, as well. So busy she would have no time to think about last night.

She sucked in a long breath. His scent still clung to her skin, and in her belly a flock of birds soared up into flight.

She studied Manette's busy fingers among the weeds. Very busy. She must make at least seven wreaths. Perhaps even eight.

They paid a quick visit to Verena Forester, the dressmaker, where Jeanne bargained for lengths of ribbon, a warm coat for Manette and enough brushed sateen for the sachet bags. At last she hoisted the sack of lavender up behind her mare and set off leading the animal with Manette's hand clasped in hers. Her daughter's other hand was closed tight over some six-legged treasure. Jeanne let out a long sigh.

Soon…very soon, she and Manette would once more be safe and snug in a house of their own. She straightened her shoulders, adjusted her drooping straw sunhat and marched forward. To accomplish that she would have to work very hard.

C'est la vie.
She had worked hard before.

 

Wash reined his horse to a halt at his first glimpse of the huge black steam engine puffing along on the last three hundred yards of newly laid iron track. Not bad, he thought. From Colville to Smoke River in five days; that meant laying four miles of track a day. Better than the last set of shovel-monkeys Sykes had sent—twenty-five burly Irish farmers fresh off the boat.

A whistle screeched and a low rumbling began in the three-deck rolling bunkhouse pushed by the train engine. At least fifty men with long black pigtails and odd dishpan-shaped hats swarmed out of the structure. Most of them looked like they weighed around one
hundred pounds with their floppy blue trousers soaking wet.

These were his graders? His track-laying crew? He groaned in disbelief.

The head man sped forward on skinny legs, keeping well clear of General's hooves. Wash nodded at the man. “Sykes sent you Celestials after all, I see.”

Snapping black eyes peered up at him. “Good yes, boss. Sykes very smart man. Chinese man work good, you will see.” He stuck out a thin arm. “My name Sam.”

Wash grunted, then reached down to clasp the man's small hand. He sure as hell would see. Sykes spoke highly of the Chinese work gangs that were beginning to grade the Central Pacific roadbed out of Sacramento. These were the best pick-and-shovel men, so Sykes had insisted. Talk was cheap. The work would tell the story. And if Sykes was wrong, he'd send his Chinese back so fast their pigtails would stand on end.

More diminutive men poured out of the three-tier bunkhouse, forming up in groups behind a single pajama-clad leader. Wash was mildly surprised at the level of organization.

“Have these men had breakfast?”

Sam nodded and grinned. “Oh, yes, boss. Eat very early, before sunup.”

“Where's your dining car?”

“No need. Cook work at stove inside.” Sam tipped his head toward the bunkhouse. “All eat, all finished. We work now.” He grinned up at Wash, his dark, intelligent eyes shining.

Maybe Sykes knew a thing or two after all. He dismounted and handed the reins to a young Chinese boy who darted forward.

“Lin will take good care of horse,” Sam assured him. “Now, we go to work?”

“Yeah, now we go to work. I need a roadbed cleared into that valley ahead. The far end has a fair grade, but this end's pretty level, mostly brush, some trees.” He paused to gauge the Chinese man's reaction.

Sam's head hadn't stopped nodding since Wash opened his mouth. “All understood, boss. We clear land.”

He barked an order in Chinese to the assembled workers and they raced for the flat railcar behind the bunkhouse and returned with shovels and picks, mauls and axes. Again they formed themselves into ranks.

Sam was beaming. “Ready, boss?”

Wash had to smile. If they were half as efficient at clearing a six-foot-wide swath through Green Valley as they were lining up, they'd be worth their weight in gold.

“Let's go, then.”

The Chinese followed him at a respectful distance until he reached the valley edge, where he stopped and pointed. “Start right here.”

Sam shouted something at the men behind him and they split into teams of four and fell on the brush like locusts.

Sam saluted smartly. “Reach flat part of valley by supper, boss.”

Like hell, Wash thought. But as the morning wore
on, the teams of men cut and hacked with more energy than he'd ever seen in a grading crew. They looked like blue-trousered ants chewing their way down the gentle slope.

Only one gentle grade would be needed on this end of the valley, he judged. The route out at the other end of the valley would be much tougher. He'd figure out the gradients tonight after supper at the boardinghouse. Tonight he'd get Rooney to stay out at MacAllister's place and watch over Jeanne.

You coward,
a voice whispered. Right. He didn't trust himself anywhere near her.

He jerked his attention to a tall pine being cut up into short log lengths. Firewood for the cook, he figured.

Wash helped stack the logs, then watched in disbelief as the small wiry men wielding axes split them in half, then in half again so four chunks of firewood fell away from the axe like an opening flower.

He offered to help stack the logs, but Sam waved him off as a small wooden hand cart appeared, pulled by two Chinese. They trundled the cart right up to the canyon edge and before Wash could blink it was loaded up to the rim with wood and rolling back toward the bunkhouse.

Wash wondered if Sykes knew how little direction his Celestials needed once they understood the task at hand. Of course he knew; that's why he owned a railroad that was already making money.

At noon, the Chinese cook rang the bunkhouse dinner gong. Wash had no taste for the strange vegetables the crew ate, so he retrieved his horse from the boy, Lin,
rode back into town and headed for the hotel dining room. Mrs. Rose served breakfast and supper at the boardinghouse, but no midday meal.

Rita at the hotel dining room greeted him with a broad smile. “Haven't seen you in a while, Colonel.”

“Been busy, Rita.”

“Mmm-hmm, I heard. Got the Lavender Lady out of Green Valley, didja?”

“Yep, I did.” Out of the frying pan and straight into the fire. He took a table next to the window and fidgeted until the white-aproned waitress brought some coffee.

Rita poured his cup full and plopped down a sugar bowl. “I hear the Lavender Lady's got no place to live now. Is that true?”

Wash bent his head over the steaming cup. “Pretty much, yeah. She's camping out at MacAllister's bunkhouse right now. I feel pretty rotten about—”

“Wouldn't worry too much, Colonel. Look there.” Rita tipped her gray curls toward the paned glass at his elbow. Across the street Jeanne was leading her gray mare toward the edge of town; the animal was so loaded with a bag of something it looked more like a camel than a horse.

Rita waited. “What'll you have, Colonel?”

“A large helping of crow,” he grumbled.

“How about a steak 'n some fries instead?”

“Sure.” He hadn't heard a word the waitress had uttered, but he figured it didn't matter. He wasn't the least bit hungry.

Rita propped her hands on her hips and followed the
direction of Wash's gaze. “I wouldn't worry too much about her,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Yeah? Why not?”

“That's one smart, hardworkin' woman. She did just fine before you and the railroad got here. She'll do just fine when you leave.”

Wash worked on believing that, watching Jeanne march along, her head held high, her steps determined. She paused at the dressmaker's and grasped her daughter's hand. Just as she turned toward the shop door, sunlight washed the face beneath the floppy hat. His pulse sped up. Whatever it was she was so intent on this morning, she couldn't look more beautiful.

He picked up his fork, then put it down. He couldn't watch. The devil of it was he couldn't
not
watch.

With Rita and the platter of steak and potatoes came a dark-faced Rooney. The older man turned a chair backward, settled himself across from Wash and inhaled dramatically.

“Smells good.” He waggled his finger at Rita to order the same. “Izzat breakfast or lunch?”

“Both.”

“Thought so. You never turned up for Miz Rose's biscuits 'n gravy this mornin'.”

“Grading crew arrived,” Wash offered in explanation. There was more—lots more—but he wasn't inclined to talk about it.

Rooney nodded slowly. “Oh. Sure.”

Wash swallowed a lump of fried potatoes. “Sykes sent some Chinese. Work like tigers.”

“They take much overseein'?” Rooney's black-and-
gray eyebrows went up and down twice while waiting for an answer.

“Not much. They're good men. Why?”

“Just wonderin'.”

Wash closed his lips over a bite of steak. No way did his partner “just wonder” about something. He surveyed his friend's craggy face while he chewed.

“What do you want to know, Rooney?”

“I wanna know who's gonna keep watch over Jeanne and Little Miss at night?”

Wash stopped eating. “You are. Go on out to MacAllister's after supper, when it gets dark.”

“You know Montez is still in jail, don'tcha?”

“Yeah, I know. I checked with the sheriff.”

Rooney frowned. “You don't want to watch over her yourself, huh? Kinda strange for a man who's got his britches in—”

“I've got some paperwork to do. Canyon's pretty steep at the far end, and I've got to figure—”

Rooney snorted. “Don't bother lyin' to me, son. She scared ya last night, right?”

Wash clanked his fork onto the china plate and sat without moving for a full minute. Then he sent a long, hard look straight into the older man's twinkling onyx eyes.

“Yeah, you're right, Rooney. Worse than any Sioux ambush we ever lived through.” In some ways Rooney was still scouting for him, even though the older man was now his paymaster and second-in-command of his crews.