Sundancer (Cheyenne Series) (13 page)

      
Brawny Irish track workers and rough hard-rock miners rubbed elbows with nattily dressed gamblers, while hard-eyed “nymphs de le grade” leaned over second-story porch rails, waving feather boas and other more personal items at potential customers. Nothing up and down the length of the Mississippi had prepared Roxanna for this spectacle. An advertisement for a production of
Titus Andronicus
would otherwise have caught her eyes, but as soon as Roxanna saw the long gleaming private rail car sitting on the side track, all she could think about was Jubal MacKenzie.

      
What sort of a man missed his only daughter's funeral and ignored his only granddaughter? Building railroads must indeed be his obsession. Of course, she was forced to admit he had repeatedly offered Alexa the chance to join him out West and been refused. Somehow Roxanna could never envision her timid friend having enough nerve to go through with a marriage to a complete stranger. But “Alexa” would do it now—if Roxanna could fool the shrewd old Scot into believing she was his granddaughter.

      
They dismounted and Cain handed the reins of their horses to a youth, instructing him to see that the animals were rubbed down and properly stabled. She stared at the inlaid mahogany and rosewood door as Cain assisted her aboard the platform at the rear of the car. “I didn't know Mr. Pullman's sleeping palaces were operating on the Union Pacific.”

      
“They're not. This one's private. Old Doc Durant bought it from the government after it was used to carry President Lincoln's body back to Illinois. When Jubal came west to manage the work crews on the line, he appropriated it.” He knocked and a gruff voice called out for him to enter.

      
Roxanna stepped into the opulent maroon and gold splendor of an immense parlor filled with overstuffed blue brocade sofas and chairs, marble-topped tables and white lace Austrian shades. A huge polished walnut desk dominated the far corner of the room. Behind it stood a powerfully built giant of a man with a barrel chest and a thick middle. His ginger-colored hair and untrimmed beard were liberally streaked with gray. Weather-blasted and sun-darkened, his face was spotted by large freckles. Shrewd gray eyes peered at her from beneath brushy eyebrows, now raised appraisingly.

      
Nervously Roxanna stepped forward, feeling almost as intimidated as the real Alexa would have. “Hello, Grandfather.”

      
His thick lips split in a wide smile as he spoke with a slight Scots burr. “Welcome, lassie. I'm relieved to see yer safe at last.” He walked around the desk and extended his arms as she approached, clasping big gnarled hands over her arms as he inspected her. “Ye do na' have the look of the MacKenzies aboot ya,” he said at length, quirking one beetled brow as he stared at her.

      
Roxanna’s heart skipped a beat before he slapped one meaty palm against his leg and added, “And it's right good you take after yer Lindstrom grandmother. I'd scarce want a granddaughter to look plug ugly as me!”

      
Roxanna wracked her memory and recalled the Norwegian woman Jubal had wed back in Pennsylvania. “Grandma Abbie gave me my hair, Mama always said, although I never knew her.”

      
“I miss her yet and she's been gone over thirty years, God rest her soul. Perhaps that's why...” He shook his head as if pushing away deeply buried thoughts and looked over to Cain. “I owe you for this piece of work.”

      
Cain nodded.
More than you can imagine, Jubal
. “She wasn't hard to find once I reached the Sand Hill country. My hunch was right. They wanted to trade for guns.” He said nothing about the band being his mother's people and hoped Alexa would not either. “I'll leave the two of you to get reacquainted. I have to check the progress the gun squads have made while I was gone.”

      
Roxanna could read nothing in his level gaze. His face was as expressionless as any of the full-blooded Cheyenne she had met. He touched the brim of his hat to her in what passed for a polite gesture. “In case I neglected to thank you for rescuing me, you have my undying gratitude, Mr. Cain,” she said in her best finishing school voice.

      
Jubal observed the exchange between the two young people and knew immediately that something was wrong. As soon as Cain closed the door, he turned to her. “Cain's a hard man. I do na' expect he was much easier on you than the Indians. Were you hurt, lassie?” he asked gruffly, taking her arm and ushering her to a camel-backed sofa.

      
“No. Frightened at first, but it was soon apparent they meant me no harm. Their old medicine man had a vision about me...” This sounded ridiculous, as if she believed the superstitions of the Cheyenne. Sees Much's wishful dreams about her and Cain were certainly nothing she should ever confess to Jubal MacKenzie. She would never mention her own dream! “He thought I was important, that someone would bargain for my freedom.”

      
Jubal pursed his lips. “A curiously astute guess.”

      
‘‘When your Mr. Cain arrived, they easily struck an agreement.”

      
Jubal poured a glass of sweet sherry for her, a stronger libation for himself. When he handed it to her she accepted it, trying to ignore the sickly smell of the loathsome stuff, but when she raised it to her mouth he seemed to sense her repugnance. “The sherry's not to yer liking?”

      
“Mama didn't approve of spirits,” she equivocated. Both Mrs. Hunt and Alexa were temperance, but he would not know about his granddaughter's sentiments, since she was too young to voice an opinion when last he saw her.

      
“And you?”

      
The studied gleam in his eye made her wonder if this was a test of some sort. Take the plunge, Roxy said, “I prefer a small touch of real liquor if I'm going to drink at all.” She eyed the amber liquid in his glass. “Is that Scotch whiskey?”

      
He shuddered. “Never acquired a taste for the peat-flavored stuff. This is a fine American invention, ten-year-old sour mash Bourbon.”

      
She smiled. “St. Louis's own. Madam Chouteau was quite fond of Bourbon, so the old story goes.”

      
He poured an inch in a glass and exchanged it for the sherry, then raised his own drink. “Just a wee dram. To America, the land of opportunity—and damn good whiskey!”

      
She touched her glass to his and sipped the smooth corn whiskey, then smiled. “Here's to both.”

      
“You just might have grown into a girl after my own heart, lassie.”

      
Roxanna sighed inwardly, relieved. The first test passed. She could like this sly old curmudgeon. How sad that the real Alexa would have disappointed him.

      
Jubal tossed down his drink and poured himself another, then dug his fingers in his woolly beard, studying her. “So you spent—what must have it been—a month, living with the Indians. Yer tougher than you look, lass.”

      
Roxanna had learned to size up men during the war. This one was nobody's fool. “After losing both parents so young, I had to learn to fend for myself. I had no family there to look out for me.”

      
“I sent for you, but you refused to come west. You wrote it was full of snakes and Indians and you were afraid.” His voice was defensive, guilty in spite of his gruffness.

      
“I was only eighteen when Mama died. I had to grow up.”

      
“A bit late, but better than never,” he said grudgingly, tossing off the last of his whiskey.

      
“Being alone, I've learned to rely on myself.”

      
“Is that why you agreed to marry the Powell boy—because yer more afraid of being an old maid than you are of coming west?”

      
Roxanna followed his example and tossed down the rest of her whiskey in one gulp. “I'm not afraid of being an old maid and I don't need a husband.”

      
“Then why did you come here to marry Powell?” he asked, leaning forward in his chair, ready for checkmate.

      
“You would have cut my allowance if I refused,” she said baldly. Damn them, men made up all the rules and forced women to follow them!

      
Jubal surprised her then. A deep slow laugh began rumbling out. “You are a saucy wench! Yes, I damn well would. But somehow I do na' think I can make you wed against yer will if you do na' like young Powell.”

      
“If he's as rude as Mr. Cain, be certain I'll refuse, Grandfather.” She could not resist saying it, but refusing the legal protection of marriage would be risky.

      
“Cain certainly put a burr under yer blanket. Is it his Indian blood?”

      
“No. I liked the Cheyenne well enough. They're proud of who they are. I don't think Cain likes who he is at all.”

      
“Yer a shrewd one for being so young. He's not at peace with himself. An outsider, always keeps people at a distance. But he's a good man for this work.”

      
“You like him.”

      
“Aye, I do,” he admitted.

      
“Perhaps because you're a little like him,” she suggested, smiling.

      
“You may just be too clever by half,” he said sourly. Her clear turquoise eyes studied him. Wanting to change the subject, he picked up the decanter. “Another hair of the dog before I see yer ensconced in Cheyenne's finest hotel?”

      
She held up her glass and winked. “Just a wee dram, Grandfather.”

      
Jubal MacKenzie chuckled and poured.

* * * *

      
Roxanna sank down into the big copper tub with a sigh of pure bliss. The hotel was not as fine as some on the Mississippi, but better by far than most in which she'd stayed. Jubal had reserved the best room in the house—a suite, really—composed of a small sitting room and a spacious bedroom with a large dressing closet and this heavenly tub. After days of dusty travel and washing in muddy creeks, this was decadent. She lathered up and let the soft glistening soap bubbles soothe away her tensions.

      
Things had gone well with Jubal MacKenzie. They had taken a quick liking to one another. She could understand him in ways Alexa, sheltered child of privilege, never could have. He was gruff, loud and profane. He drank. But he was also hardworking and willing to accept people for their abilities rather than their pedigrees. Born to solid middle-class comfort in Scotland, Jubal had lost everything as a small boy when his father died bankrupt, leaving him to fend for himself on the streets of Aberdeen. He had come to America, survived by his wits and prospered.

      
She certainly knew enough about surviving by her wits, although she had yet to prosper much—until now. If only she could charm Lawrence Powell and his formidable father half so well as she had Jubal. But what if she detested her prospective bridegroom? Despite Jubal's assurances that he was pleasant-natured and good-looking, she could not trust the wily old man's opinion when he had so much to gain from the alliance. Still, she had made her bed and now she would have to lie in it...with Lawrence Powell.

      
Leaning her head back on the rim of the tub, Roxanna closed her eyes and Cain's scowling dark face flashed before her. He was the reason she was having second thoughts about Powell, damn him. She should be grateful that she had not succumbed to his rough seduction...if it could justly be called seduction. Certainly it had been a near thing. She remembered his mouth on her breasts, his hard long body pressed against hers, the rasp of his whiskers on her fingertips as she touched those bold hawkish features... A warmth began to steal over her owing nothing to the tepid water in the tub. Her mind turned to the scene in the ravine when she had been...

      
She sat up angrily, breaking the spell. He had made clear his feelings for her and they did not include love or permanence, certainly not a decent offer of marriage or the security and wealth the Powell name would give her. Cain was just as Jubal said, an outsider, a bitter loner who fit in nowhere and cared for no one.

      
“Soon Alexa Hunt is going to meet her future husband. Forget about the half-breed gunman and get on with your life!” With that admonition, she dunked her head and began to shampoo her hair.

* * * *

      
Gable Hogue had worked for the Widow Darby for nearly four years and he did not like her. She was impatient and always putting on airs as if she were better than anyone else. Since he had been fired from the Remington Investigation Agency in Chicago, jobs had been scarce. She did pay decently—when she received the information she wanted. He'd tracked Roxanna Fallon up and down the Mississippi, locating her each time she joined a new theatrical company. She'd almost given him the slip for good in St. Louis. It had been a lucky fluke that he caught her trail after Alexa Hunt's funeral.

      
Smiling in anticipation of the hard currency Isobel Darby would pay him, he headed down Sixth Street to their prearranged meeting place. Yes sir, her silver-haired quarry was here in Cheyenne right enough. He'd seen her himself, no mistaking that looker. Registered as Alexa Hunt, she was set up at the best hotel in Cheyenne. Not a bad switch, he thought with admiration, trading in her grease paints for a rich granddaddy. Not to mention surviving captivity with some red savages. Once that Darby bitch found out, poor Roxy Fallon would be better off with the Indians. Too bad. He was gaining a sneaking respect for her resourcefulness in spite of the merry chase she'd led him on. But Gable Hogue always went for the money first.