Last Chance Cowboys: The Drifter (27 page)

“Hello, Jess.”

Jess's scowl changed instantly to a smile when he saw Sybil Sinclair gazing up at him. “I was on my way to get some punch but…”

“Maybe we could enjoy this waltz first?” Jess offered her his arm the way his mother had taught both her boys a gentleman would escort a lady and led her onto the dance floor.

* * *

Addie could not for the life of her figure out why she continued to allow that man to get to her. Why couldn't she be more like Jess's younger sister and her good friend, Amanda—calm and sophisticated? She searched the gathering for Amanda, but hesitated when she saw her friend surrounded by the usual trio of admirers. Amanda had been planning this party for weeks now. She certainly deserved to enjoy herself and not have to sympathize with Addie. Besides, Jess was Amanda's brother, newly returned to the fold from his travels following his father's death—a death everyone now knew had not been the accident they'd first thought.

Addie stopped dead in her tracks. Her hand flew to her mouth.
What was she thinking?

Poor Jess. Did he know? Had anyone told him? Of course not. Jess had a temper, and if he knew what everyone now knew, he'd likely be off trying to track down the killer.

Maybe Jess had overheard some of the talk. Maybe that was why he was talking about applying for the marshal's position. After all, Jasper Tipton had built that big house in town to please his bride, Pearl, and his brother, Buck, lived there as well. While the local marshal had no jurisdiction outside the town limits, Jess might just think the fact the Tiptons resided in town opened the door for him to go after them. More than likely he would get himself killed in the bargain. Her head was spinning as she tried to think the issue through from every side.

“This is not one of your medical cases,” she muttered to herself. “This is Jess.” And when it came to figuring out what Jess Porterfield might be thinking, she fully appreciated that logic was not part of the process. She was still mad at him for leaving all those months ago, but that didn't mean she didn't care about him and, knowing his temper, he was bound to get into trouble. With a sigh, she headed off to find her father. Maybe he could talk some sense into the man—the man she had fallen in love with, planned a future with, and then rejected. But as she moved through the throng of party guests pausing now and then to exchange a greeting, it wasn't her father she saw—it was Jess.

He wasn't spoiling for a fight at all. No, he was laughing and flirting with Sybil Sinclair. Sybil with her blond curls and her bright blue eyes and a cupid's bow of a mouth that made her look like a porcelain doll. Sybil with her tiny waist and her flawless skin and giddy laugh that actually came out as
Tee-hee-hee
.

“My brother is trying to make you jealous,” Amanda murmured, coming to stand next to her. “Do not let him know that it's working.”

“It's not,” Addie insisted, pushing her glasses more firmly onto the bridge of her nose. She straightened to her full height, which was still a good three inches shorter than Sybil's willowy five foot four. She brushed back a lock of hair that had come loose from the practical bun she preferred, and tried not to think about how her stick-straight locks would look worn down like Sybil's long curls. “I really couldn't care less if your brother wants to make an utter fool of himself with that—”

“Good to know you aren't affected,” Amanda said wryly. “But two can play this game. Come on. Dance with Harlan Stokes.”

Just like Jess, Harlan Stokes had a reputation with the ladies. He had never paid the slightest attention to Addie, but he had definitely set his sights on Amanda. She could get him to do anything—even dance with plain Addie Wilcox. Of course, even as he led Addie to the dance floor, his eyes remained on Amanda, who had accepted another cowboy's invitation to dance. Addie couldn't fault Harlan because her own gaze kept drifting to where Jess was dancing with Sybil. The song was “Sweet Betsy from Pike”—a favorite of Addie's, but she barely heard the tune as Harlan guided her around the floor.

“You think I've got any chance at all with Amanda?” Harlan asked.

Addie glanced up at him. He was only a few inches taller than she was and she knew the other cowhands teased him a lot about his short stature. They even called him Peewee. He looked miserable as he turned her for the sole purpose of keeping his eye on Amanda. Addie knew that her answer called for diplomacy of the highest order.

“Well, you know Amanda is still unsettled in her ways. She's not yet decided on the path she wants to take.”

“Not like you, huh? I mean, everybody knows you've been planning on taking over your pa's practice just as soon as you finish your schooling and all.”

“Well, not taking over. More like working with him.”

Harlan looked surprised. “You've been doing that since you were a kid.”

The fact that Harlan's full attention was now focused on her made Addie uncomfortable—so much so that she stumbled and he tightened his hold on her, pulling her closer. “Easy there,” he said. “You got your bearings?”

“I'm fine,” she said and knew it came out as a rebuff when he loosened his grip. “Thank you,” she added. “I'm not very good at dancing.”

He frowned. “You're fine, Addie Wilcox. Just fine.”

She was surprised to feel a lump in her throat at his kindness. Blessedly the waltz ended just then. “Thank you, Harlan. I know that Amanda asked you to take pity on me and—”

“You shouldn't do that, Addie. Put yourself down that way. You're worth two of most of the females at this party.”

This had to stop. Addie could feel the heat rise along her neck up into her cheeks. “There's not a whole lot of competition,” she said, looking around at the gathering where men outnumbered the girls and women by a factor of at least three to one.

“You know what I'm saying.”

“Why, thank you, Harlan. Does that include Amanda Porterfield?” She was teasing him now.

It was his turn to blush. “Well now, Miss Addie, it would take a lot to measure up to Amanda Porterfield—at least for me.”

“You're a good man, Harlan. Thank you for the dance.” She punctuated her appreciation with a slight curtsy and laughed when Harlan bowed in return.

“Pleasure was mine, ma'am.”

They were both laughing when Addie spotted Jess scowling at her as he carried two cups of punch back to where he had left Sybil waiting.

“Hey, Jess,” Harlan called out, “'bout time you got home. The other boys and me have been missing you and your money at the poker games.”

Jess kept walking, acknowledging Harlan's greeting only by raising one of the punch cups in a toast. Addie watched him go, drawn in by the familiar, graceful gait.

Stop it
, she ordered herself.

Seymour Bunker, the oldest hand on the Porterfield spread and as good with a fiddle as he was with a lariat, struck up a reel. Harlan took Addie's hand and they joined the other dancers. At the same time, she saw Jess set down the cups of punch and lead Sybil into the circle. Addie's pulse raced as she realized there was no way she could avoid taking her turn with him in the change of partners required by the dance.

They came together and then circled away and then came together again, sashaying their way down the line of other dancers. She refused to look at him, her mouth drawn into a tight line and her brow furrowed in concentration as if the steps of the dance were every bit as complex as her study of the thick anatomy text she'd left on the kitchen table back home. Jess tightened his hold on her waist as they made their way down the center of the other dancers. When they reached the end of the line, he let her go without a word and turned back to Sybil, who gave Addie a victorious smile before promenading through the line with Jess.

Addie was aware that everyone was looking at her, feeling sorry for her, and once the dance finally ended, Harlan's cheeks were flushed. “I'm sorry, Addie. I wasn't thinking. I mean, Jess is a durn fool, if you'll pardon me saying so. Leaving a woman like you the way he did…”

“Please don't concern yourself, Harlan. Thank you for the dances. Oh, look, Amanda is looking this way. Maybe she's free for the next waltz.”

Harlan gave Addie a little bow and hurried off. Of course, he wasn't the only one who thought that Jess had all but jilted her. Jess's stupid pride had never allowed him to admit the truth—that he had begged her to go with him and she had refused.

Well, he'd come back. She had no idea why, but she'd be willing to bet that it was because the life he'd been so sure was waiting for him in the city had never materialized. It surprised her to realize that she got no satisfaction from that thought. She watched him drink down his punch in one long gulp while Sybil sipped hers.

The one thing that no amount of irritation at the man could change was that he was undeniably good-looking. He was tall, and his muscular frame gave evidence of his ability to work hard. Tonight he was wearing black trousers, a blue shirt, and a leather vest, as if he'd known he was dressing for a party. And boots, of course—new from the look of them. When he'd first arrived he'd been wearing a black Stetson, but his mother had removed that as soon as she ran to embrace him.

A hank of his straw-colored hair had now fallen over his forehead and Addie saw Sybil reach up to push it back, but Jess stepped away from her touch. He said something to her, smiled, and then walked away. Addie's breath quickened and she closed her eyes, preparing herself for what she might say when Jess came her way.

But when she opened her eyes she saw that he had not only walked away from Sybil…he had also walked away from her.

And she was the fool who had let him.

Please enjoy this excerpt from
USA Today
bestselling author Rosanne Bittner's

Thunder on the Plains

May 1857

Annie Webster frowned when she opened the door. “I don't take nobody but gentlemen in my boardinghouse,” she warned defensively, “and only them that bathes.”

The young man standing on her porch removed a wide-brimmed leather hat, revealing a cascade of thick, nearly black hair that fell in tumbled layers. “I don't know much about gentlemen, ma'am, except that I'm no troublemaker; and I
do
take baths, often as I can.”

The woman studied him closely, noticing he was clean-shaven. Although he wore buckskins, they were not worn and dirty like those she had seen on so many other men in Omaha who dressed like this one. The young man smiled warmly, his teeth straight and white, too white, she thought. Maybe they looked that way because his skin was so dark. Whatever the reason, it was a very handsome, unnerving smile, and it destroyed her remaining defenses.

She stepped aside, allowing him inside. His lanky six-foot-plus frame towered over her as she closed the door and folded her arms, a look of authority moving into her eyes. “Well, what will it be? Money's got to be paid up front. I've had my share of men comin' in here and messin' up a room for a couple of nights, then takin' off without payin'.”

“I'm not here for a room, ma'am. Name's Colt Travis, and I came here to see a Mister uh—” He stopped and took a folded piece of paper from where it was tucked into his wide leather belt. Mrs. Webster watched warily, for attached to the belt was a beaded sheath that held a huge knife. Around his hips hung a gun belt and revolver. The hands that unfolded the paper looked strong, and were tanned even darker than his face from exposure to the prairie sun, darker than any white man she had ever seen. “A Mr. Stuart Landers,” he finished. He looked at her with soft hazel eyes, a gentle gaze that didn't seem to match the rest of his rugged frame. “This poster says I can find him here. He's looking for an experienced scout.”

“Experienced? You don't look old enough to have much experience, but then I guess that's for Mr. Landers to decide.”

“Is he here then?”

The woman nodded, squinting and eyeing him even more closely. “You an Indian?”

Colt felt the heat coming to his cheeks. It was a question he was sick of hearing every time he met someone new. “I'm just a man looking for a job.”

Mrs. Webster straightened. “That's not what I asked.”

Colt sighed. “Ma'am, will you please just get Mr. Landers?”

The woman sniffed. “Follow me.” She turned and walked over a polished hardwood floor to a small but neat room with a brick fireplace. Vases and knickknacks lined the mantel. “Can't blame me for askin',” she muttered. “Them high cheekbones and that dark hair and skin, wearin' buckskins and all, what do you expect? I got a right to know who I'm lettin' in my door.”

Colt said nothing. He glanced around the room, wondering if the woman scrubbed every item every day. It was hard to believe that anything in this dusty town could be kept so clean. The room was decorated with plants and little tables, stuffed chairs, and a sofa with flower-patterned upholstery.

“I'm Annie Webster,” she said, turning to meet his eyes. “You can wait here in the parlor, Mr. Travis. I'll get Mr. Landers.”

“Thank you, ma'am.”

The woman started out, then stopped and glanced back at him as though trying to tell him with her eyes he had better not break or soil anything. Colt just nodded to her, and she finally left. Colt remained standing, deciding the furniture looked too fine to sit on. He wondered if Mrs. Webster was a Mormon. Several Mormons had chosen to stay in Omaha since they first settled there for one winter a good ten years before.

The Mormons had a way of making something out of nothing, and this house was an example. There were few fine frame buildings in Omaha, more log and tent structures than anything else, but the place considered itself a city nonetheless. Even in its young stage, it was all the city Colt cared to encounter. He felt closed in in the small parlor, as out of place as a buffalo might feel inside a house. He looked down at his boots, hoping he had stamped off enough dust so as not to dirty Mrs. Webster's immaculately polished floor and colorful braided rugs.

“Mr. Travis.” Colt turned to see a man of perhaps thirty approaching. He guessed the man's suit was silk, as was the paisley-print vest he wore beneath the perfectly fitting jacket. A gold watch chain hung from the vest pocket. The man looked Colt over appreciatively. “Stuart Landers,” he said, putting out his hand. “I am very glad to meet you. Mrs. Webster says you've come in answer to my poster.”

Colt took his hand, thinking what a weak grip the man had. Landers's dark hair was already beginning to thin dramatically, his temples and the area just back from his forehead already bald. In spite of the man's obvious wealth, evident by his dress and manner, there was an honesty to his dark eyes that Colt liked right away. “Well, sir, the words
excellent
pay
kind of struck my eye.”

Landers laughed and motioned for Colt to be seated across from him. Colt reluctantly lowered himself into a stuffed chair, deciding not to lean back. “I am afraid I might have made a mistake putting those words in the ad,” Landers told him. “Oh, the pay
will
be excellent, but the ad attracted every sort of man imaginable. Most of those who answered it so far have turned out either not to have near enough experience, or have been so dirty and dangerous-looking that I just felt I couldn't trust them.” The man studied Colt intently as he spoke. “Mrs. Webster said you, on the other hand, gave a very good appearance and didn't, uh…well, to put it bluntly, she said ‘this one doesn't smell bad.'”

Colt frowned, trying to decide whether or not the remark was a compliment. He rested his elbows on his knees, fingering his hat. “Mr. Landers, I don't know what this is all about or why it matters, but before my folks died, I was raised to be clean and respectful. My father was a missionary, came west with the Cherokee back in the thirties. Fact is, my mother was a Cherokee herself, but she and my pa lived in nice houses and brought me up a Christian. I have to say, though, that whether or not a man is clean and educated doesn't have much to do with how good a scout he is.”

“Oh, I am sure of that; but this is a situation that calls for both—an experienced scout who can ensure our safety, but a man presentable and mannerly enough to be around my younger sister. She's never been exposed to this rough frontier life. My father won't allow any nonsense around her—foul language, uncleanliness, that sort of thing. You're half Indian, you say?”

Colt felt the defenses rising again, but he did not detect an insulting ring to the words. “Cherokee. Lived most of my early years down in Texas. My folks were both dead by the time I was fourteen, and I've been kind of a wandering man ever since.”

“Well, whether or not you're a half—I mean, being part Indian isn't really so important as long as you were raised by a white, Christian father. You speak well and give a good appearance. I must say, you look young, though, Mr. Travis. May I ask your age?”

“I'm twenty, but I've been on my own and lived a man's life for a lot of years. I've been to Oregon and back four times and to California twice. I've fought Indians and killed my share, led wagon trains, hunted buffalo, you name it. I even know a little bit about surveying. After my mother died, my father moved to Austin and worked for a surveyor for a few years down in Texas, and I worked right alongside him.”

Landers's eyes lit up. “Surveying! Why, that's wonderful! That kind of experience is just what we need! I
knew
if I took my time I'd find the right man.”

Colt watched him warily. “I ought to tell you I have a partner, name of Slim Jessup,” he said, speaking in a soft Texas drawl. “He's a little less prone to bathing, but I'd make sure he cleaned up. He's quite a bit older, taught me everything I know. He'd be here with me now, but he's over seeing a horse doctor about getting a tooth pulled.”

“A
horse
doctor!” Landers grimaced. “For a tooth?”

“Out here you take help wherever you can find it,” Colt said. “Slim's in a lot of pain.”

Stuart Landers shook his head. “Well, will this Mr. Jessup be willing to come along?”

Colt rose, beginning to feel restless within the four walls. “I can't answer that until you tell me what this is all about, Mr. Landers. I haven't even said I'd do it myself for sure, but even without Slim, I can assure you I can do as good a job as anybody. I have a couple of letters of recommendation from people whose wagon trains I've helped guide west. I hang on to them to help me get new jobs. You want to see them?”

Landers rose. “Well, yes, I suppose I should.” He studied Colt more closely as the young man took the letters from a small leather bag that was tied to his belt. He took note of the weapons Colt wore, intuition telling him this young man did indeed know what he was about. Colt handed him the letters, which he had obviously been carrying around for a while. They were worn from being folded and unfolded often, but the writing was still legible.

Colt walked to a window while Landers read the letters. He looked out at the dusty, rutted street in front of the house, again wondering how Mrs. Webster kept the place so clean. It felt strange to be inside a normal home now, even though he had been brought up this way. It had been many years since he had lived in a real house. Since losing his parents, the whole West had become his home, the sky his ceiling, the earth his floor. He had grown to like it that way. Slim said it was the Indian in him.

“Well, these people praise you highly, Mr. Travis,” Landers said. He walked over and handed the letters to Colt. “I am impressed and delighted. Time is getting short, and I wasn't sure I would find the right man. You're pretty young, but better qualified than anyone else I've interviewed. It would be good if your partner would accompany you. An extra man never hurts, but as far as protection goes, my father will be bringing along his own little army. What we need is someone who knows the way, at least as far as Fort Laramie; someone who can communicate with the Indians and keep us out of trouble; and a man who knows a little about surveying, well, that's all the better. We want the best, Mr. Travis, since my little sister is coming along.” Landers reached into a vest pocket, taking out a little gold case and opening it. “Would you like a smoke, Mr. Travis?”

Colt eyed the five thin cigars inside the case. He nodded, taking one. “Never saw cigars this small before,” he commented.

“Oh, they're quite pleasant and very expensive.”

Landers closed the case and walked back to sit down. Colt put the thin smoke to his lips and wet the end of it. “I don't understand why your sister has to come along at all,” he said then. “The land west of here is no fitting place for a young, pampered girl who's used to a fine house and all the comforts.” He moved to the fireplace and took a large flint match from a pewter cup, striking it and lighting the cigar. He puffed on it until the end glowed good and red.

“You don't know Sunny, or my father,” Landers answered, smiling almost sadly. “Sunny's got spirit. She'll try anything. And she's the apple of my father's eye. He named her Sunny because he says she brought a new ray of sunshine into his life when she was born. He doesn't go anyplace without her, and she wouldn't let him if he tried.” Colt sensed a tiny hint of jealousy in the words, but it vanished in the next sentence. “Sunny's name truly fits her,” Landers added, looking away from Colt and out a nearby window. “She has hair as yellow as the sun, eyes as blue as the sky, and a smile that makes it very hard not to love her, at least for me anyway. My older brother, well, I suppose he loves her like any other brother loves a sister, at least a half sister; but he's afraid my father will give her a little too much of the family fortune. Still—”

The man shifted in his chair and looked suddenly embarrassed. “Excuse me, Mr. Travis. I didn't mean to go on like that about personal family matters that are of no interest to you. I never answered your original question—what this job involves.” He leaned back, putting his right foot up on the opposite knee. “It's about a railroad, Mr. Travis, a transcontinental railroad—one that will link Chicago with California.”

Colt's eyebrows arched, and he could not help grinning. He took another puff on the cigar then, thinking what good tobacco it was. “A railroad clear across the country?” He could not suppress a snicker at the ridiculous idea.

“Go ahead and laugh, Mr. Travis,” Landers told him. “You wouldn't be the first man to scoff at the idea. Even I am no exception.”

Colt shook his head and took the cigar from his mouth. “To each man his own dream, I guess.” He walked back over to the chair but remained standing. “Your
father
intends to build this railroad?”

“He and several other enterprising men who don't know what else to do with their millions. I am perfectly aware there are plenty who think he's crazy, my older brother included. He won't have anything to do with any of this. Fact is, he thinks my father's foolish dreams are going to bankrupt us.” The man rubbed at his neck. “Much as I tend to agree he's a little crazy, I personally don't believe my father would let the family business go under because of his dreams. He and his own father and grandfather worked too hard to build what they have, Mr. Travis. They come from rugged stock. My father and grandfather helped settle Chicago when it was just a trading post—Fort Dearborn. They survived the Pottawatomie massacre of 1812, built a trading and shipping empire that's worth millions today. Started out in the fur trade. We own ships that travel the Great Lakes, and we own a good share of stock in the railroads that come into Chicago. More railroads lead into Chicago now than any other city. I'll bet you didn't know that.”