Mustang Annie (22 page)

“You just ain't opening yourself up to the possibilities.” Rose opened the door to the cast iron stove and started shoving chunks of pine into its mouth. “Fetch those kettles out of the pantry, will ya, hon?”

Honesty moved to the pantry and brought out a pair of banded wooden buckets and two huge copper kettles. She caught sight of the man leading his horse across the back yard with the straight-shouldered, loose-limbed stride of a man at ease with himself and the world.

Possibilities?
Good gravy, he looked as if he'd been dragged through a riverbed and hung out to dry. It wouldn't surprise her if his face was plastered on wanted posters from here to Mexico. All those whiskers, that long, matted hair . . . Hadn't she heard somewhere that long hair often hid the cropped upper ear marking a horse thief?

“So what does he want?” she asked, hoping Rose read nothing more into the question than idle curiosity. She'd done her utmost to hear the conversation between the two of them, but the stranger's voice had been too low timbered to make eavesdropping possible.

“Same thing as every other man. Good whiskey, a hot bath, a soft bed, and willing woman to share it with.”

She should have guessed. Why should he be any different? “He didn't have to make a trip all the way out here for that.”

“He didn't. Apparently he was heading for Leadville when his horse went lame.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Why shouldn't I? No one comes to Last Hope willingly anymore.”

That was an understatement. Even she wouldn't be here if fate hadn't stepped in.

“Water's just about ready, hon. Go on and take him his bath while I put a stew on for supper.”

A sudden flurry of panic erupted in Honesty's middle at the idea of being in the same room with the stranger. “How about if I cook the stew and you take him his bath?”

Rose laughed. “I want the man pleasured, not poisoned.” Then she glanced over her shoulder, and her face softened. “Honesty, are you afraid of him?”

“Of course not!” she hastily denied. Cautious, yes. And why not? Three months ago her father had been shot down in cold blood. Who wouldn't be wary after that? “I just can't shake the feeling that his showing up here isn't as innocent as he wants us to believe.”

“That may be true, but his reasons aren't any of our concern. He's the first customer to walk through those doors in weeks, and as long as he's got the coin, we'll oblige his every whim.”

That thought made the disturbing sensation in her middle return full force. She couldn't forget the hungry look he'd given her, and his raw, naked longing had stirred something inside Honesty she'd buried long ago—a desire to belong to a man. To be his alone to honor, cherish, and protect till their last breath.

Honesty glanced down at her hands, the nails short and chipped, the fingers conspicuously bare. “Rose . . . don't you ever dream of some-thing more than this?”

She set down a sack of flour she'd taken from the cupboard. “What, like prince-charming, castles-in-the-sky, people-throwing-flower-petals-at-my-feet kind of dreams?”

At Honesty's nod, she confessed, “I used to have that dream all the time.”

“But not anymore?”

An unladylike snort blew through the air. “Dreamin' is for pretty young skirts like yourself, not frayed old garters like me.”

“You're not old, Rose.”

“I'm twenty-five and I've done a lot and learned a lot and lived a lot in those twenty-five years.”

More than most, Honesty suspected. Though only five years older than herself, life had hardened whatever soft edges Rose might once have had. Once again, Honesty was reminded of how much her father had protected her over the years. “What about love, Rose? Did you ever love during those years, too?”

She looked suddenly ancient and weary. “More than any woman should have to, darlin'.” With a sigh, she said, “Look, take Jesse his bath. If he wants more than a good scrubbin', turn him over to me.”

That Rose would make such a sacrifice touched Honesty more than she could say, but she knew good and well that she hadn't been hired as decoration. Rose could no more afford to lose a customer, than Honesty could afford to lose a possible means of solving the mystery her father had left her. If the man wanted more than a good scrubbing, well . . . Honesty hadn't reached womanhood without a few tricks in her pocket.

With a brave smile, she patted Rose's arm. “Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself.” She'd had plenty of practice in the last three months.

All right, she thought, grabbing the tub by its handles, so he wasn't exactly the knight in shining armor she'd been hoping for.

Come to think of it, his scruffy appearance could play to her advantage. No one would expect to find Deuce McGuire's daughter with such a disreputable person. He might even provide opportunities to search places normally forbidden to her. And if Honesty had learned anything in her twenty years, it was never to overlook an opportunity.

No matter how pitiful it appeared.

 

Jesse took his time tending to Gemini, bathing the wound, bandaging his leg, doing his best to apologize for causing the injury in the first place. But even if the mustang hadn't needed the extra attention, he'd have used it as an excuse to get himself under control.

What had come over him? So Rose's girl was a looker.

The last thing he had time for was a sable-haired, misty-eyed temptress distracting him from his assignment.

Then, with a grimace, he realized that until Gem's leg healed, all he had was time. Too much of it.

“What kind of trouble have you landed me into this time, huh, Gem?”

The horse looked at him with soulful brown eyes, then turned to the bucket of hay Jess had filled for him. With a sigh, Jess gathered the strips of cloth and tin of ointment he'd used to doctor the horses leg.

Once he had Gem settled in the rickety stall next to a bony, dark-hided mule, Jesse returned to the saloon, mounted the steps, and let himself into the first open room.

The accommodations weren't much to boast about. Plain walls, an iron bedstead and side table, two chairs tucked under a supper table, and a claw-footed wardrobe that smelled faintly of cedar. The red calico screen in the corner probably hid a commode and wash stand. He'd slept in worse places, though. It came with the territory.

As promised, a tin tub sat waiting in the center of the room. All it lacked was water.

Jesse lowered himself onto the bed and the ropes strained and screeched in protest under his one hundred seventy pound frame. The spread was a bit frayed, but at least there weren't fleas jumping at him or questionable stains.

Jesse discarded his duster, pulled off his boots, draped his gun belt around the foot-post, and topped it with his hat. The few shots of whiskey had his head pleasantly buzzing. As soon as his bath showed up, he'd indulge in the first good soaking he'd had in weeks. And after a good night's sleep, he'd start scouring this two bit town for clues leading him to Duncan McGuire.

A floorboard squeaked under his stockinged feet as he crossed to the window overlooking the empty street. It still amazed him that the case had been open for sixteen years. A kidnapping wasn't his usual taste. Cattle rustling, train robberies, stagecoach heists and horse thieving . . . those were the cases that he fed on.

Had
fed on, Jess corrected. After twelve years, he was just fed up. He wouldn't even have accepted this assignment if he could have avoided it. But what's a fellow to do when the man who saved his life asks for a favor? McParland wouldn't even have asked him to take the case if the agency wasn't running so short-handed. But with a majority of the agents tied up with the McCormick strike and the Denver Branch just getting on its feet, Jess knew his old friend hadn't had many options. Nor could Jess have turned him down.

He rubbed his shoulder and continued staring out the window as a setting sun cast the deserted road in shades of red and black.

Damn, but he wished he had more to go on than the scanty information in the file. Duncan McGuire had stolen the daughter of a San Francisco shipping magnate, then absconded with the ransom.

The child, unfortunately, was lost to her family forever; a few weeks after the ransom had been paid, the clothes she'd been wearing washed ashore of San Francisco Bay. Jess didn't hold out any hope of recovering the money, either; McGuire was a notorious con-artist with a penchant for gambling. But he'd find “Deuce” McGuire eventually—and once he did, he'd be done with the Pinkerton Detective Agency. A man could only spend so many years being shot at and beat up and left to rot in places unfit for the human race. . . .

Jesse pushed back the incident chewing at the edge of his memory. Yeah, the faster he found McGuire, the sooner he could hang up his badge and get on with the rest of his life. Maybe buy himself a plot of land, find himself a wife, have a couple of kids.

Unfortunately the hot lead he'd been following had grown colder than a Montana winter.

“If I were a Scotsman, where would I be?”

A rap on the door interrupted his musings.

At his call, Honesty walked in, balancing a stack of towels and soap in one hand and a yoke of water buckets across her shoulders. As before, the sight of her chased conscious thought from his head. Belatedly Jesse realized he should have offered to relieve her of her burden, yet he seemed incapable of moving.

What was it about her? She wasn't the first sightly woman he'd seen and no doubt wouldn't be the last. And yet, she carried herself with a regalness that made him want to touch her and keep his distance at the same time.

She set the towels on the table, then poured the buckets into the tub. “Do you plan on bathing with your clothes on?”

Jesse pushed away from the wall and unfastened first one shirt cuff, then the other. “Honesty. An unusual name.”

“My father was an unusual man. You might want to test the water before you get in.”

Ahh, a no-trespassing subject. He could respect that. He didn't much care to discuss his father, either.

After scooping his hand through the water and finding it to his satisfaction, he finished unfastening his shirt and tossed it carelessly on one of the chairs.

“Good gravy, what happened to you?”

Jesse didn't have to look at the web-like scars above his heart to know what she was referring to. “I had a fight with a Winchester and lost.” He unbuttoned his trousers and she whipped away to face the wall. Jess paused for a second and quirk his brow. Hell, she acted as if she'd never seen a man undress before.

“Does it hurt?”

“Only when I breathe.”

“You're lucky you're able to do that. An inch lower and you'd be dead.”

“That was the plan.” He shucked his pants, then lowered himself into the steaming water with a sigh. The tub was almost too small to hold him; Jess had to fold his knees to his chest just to fit. “You can turn around now,” he told her with a chuckle.

Honesty peered over her shoulder, as if checking to see if it was safe, before lifting her chin and approaching him. She knelt behind him, and he heard her lathering her hands. He nearly melted when her soap-slick palms glided across his upper back.

“So what brings you to Last Hope?”

“Nothing in particular. Just passing through.”

“Unless I miss my guess, you do that often.”

She must take fishing lessons from Rose. “Often enough.”

“Are you a miner?”

“Not hardly.”

“An outlaw?”

“No.”

“A gambler?”

That one made him smile. “Sometimes. Are you always this nosey?”

“Sometimes.”

The sideways grin she gave him stole the breath from his lungs. It struck him as so pure and innocent that a moment passed before Jesse remembered that purity and innocence were hardly words connected with a women of her profession.

“Close your eyes so I can wet your hair.”

Jesse did as she bade, and groaned with plea sure when the warm water tumbled over his head. Damn, but that felt good. The scouring of her fingers against his scalp felt even better.

He leaned back and allowed himself to enjoy the full extent of her ministrations. Lilac perfume and a woodsy scent he recognized as patchouli wafted around him as fingernails gently scored his scalp from brow to nape. Her hands then circled his neck, ran across his shoulders, and down his chest, taking extra care around the puckered scar born of McParland's exceptional aim. . . .

Remembering his cravings when he first arrived in town, he amended them. To hell with the meal—this bath was heaven itself.

When he opened his eyes, he was treated to the delicious sight of Honesty's breasts trying to push their way out of their tight confines. Yep, definitely heaven.

Just then a glitter of gold caught his eye. Languidly, he slid his forefinger beneath the chain and lifted an object from the valley it called home. The size of the ruby set into a gold ring raised his eyebrows. “What's this?”

Soapy hands gently extracted the jewelry from his grip and dropped it between the pale swells. “A gift.”

“You must be quite talented.”

“From my
father
.”

Even if her correction had called for a reply, the appearance of a straight blade in her hand would have warned Jesse against voicing it.

“I hope you aren't too fond of that scruff on your face, because you and it are parting company.” She gripped his chin between her thumb and forefinger. “I can't abide whiskers.” Only then did Jess realize how deep a blue her eyes were, and right now, they glittered with a determination that set his nerves on edge.

Biting her lip, she tilted her head first one way, then the other. The sight of those pearly whites nibbling on pink flesh made Jesse's mouth water.