Velvet Thunder (34 page)

He noted her courage in the face of discovery. Didn't like it a hell of a lot, but he noted it. Just as he noted her jealousy. He could hardly blame her. If he had seen a man kiss Stevie the way Christina—damn her soul—had kissed him, he would shoot first and ask questions later.

Just the thought of a man kissing Stevie sharpened Heath's voice. “Before we discuss why you're so mad at me, I demand an explanation. Why did you refuse to travel with me, then show up here in Kansas City?” His tone softened. “Dare I hope you changed your mind?”

“You can hope all you want. Far as I know, it's not against the law. But some of us have learned there's not much benefit to it.”

Heath winced. The air was thick with her unspoken accusation. She had hoped that he would return for her. It was painfully obvious that due to Christina's untimely arrival, Stevie now considered her hopes for a future with him futile. Guilt warred with indignation. If she had wanted him so badly, all she had to do was accept his invitation to New York. She really had no right to be angry at him about Christina. Just as he was about to reassure her on that score, she pulled a snub-nosed derringer on him.

“Now, get out of my way,” she ordered, pointing the patently unimpressive weapon at his chest.

“Take care, sugar.” He chuckled, enraging her further. “If you shoot me with that and I find out about it, I might get mad.”

That he would make fun of her made her even angrier. “Move,” she spat out through clenched teeth.

He stood there for a moment. “Oh, hell!” With two strides he was in front of her. “Give me that damn thing before you hurt yourself.” He grabbed the gun and tossed it on the bed. Wrapping his arms around her, he kissed her hard. At length, she relaxed against him. He raised his head. “Are you going to tell me what you're doing here, or not?”

She stiffened. “I'm on my way to New York.”

“Care to tell me why you turned me down, then struck out on your own?” He had a pretty good idea what she was after. It was the same thing she had been after since the first moment they met. Judge Jack. When she remained mute, he prodded her, “You didn't eavesdrop on a conversation between Jay and me, did you?”

She considered confessing all and asking his help. Now that he had discovered her, there was little need for secrecy.

A sharp rap came on the door. Heath crossed over and admitted Jeevers. A string of hotel employees filed into the room behind him, some carrying buckets of hot water, some platters of food. He instructed the water bearers to fill the tub in the other room, the food bearers to set the table in front of a pair of partially open French doors.

“Our train leaves within the hour. Do you want to bathe or eat first?”

Stevie was put off that Heath assumed she was traveling with him. All the while she was pleased that he didn't press her for further explanation.

When she didn't answer, he said, “I have a matter to attend to. Feel free to use the bath. We can eat when I return.”

Stevie knew good and well the matter had to do with Christina. Indignant, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the other room.

 

 

Refreshed and replete, Stevie still not speaking, they piled into a carriage shortly before sunset for the ride to the depot. When they arrived, it took conscious effort for Stevie not to gape at the spectacle before her. The sight was even more awe-inspiring—and intimidating—than the elegant hotel.

What a country bumpkin she was! She had never seen such a mass of people. It seemed as though everyone west of the Mississippi were catching the train to St. Louis. Despite her pique, she stepped closer to Heath's side as he made his way through the crowd with ease, guiding her the length of the train, arriving finally at the most exquisite Pullman rail car Kansas City had ever seen.

Stevie lost the fight for nonchalance then. There was no way she could appear unimpressed when they broke through the crowd ringing the exquisite mode of travel. “It's beautiful,” she breathed, her first word to Heath in an hour.

“Wonder whose it is?” a heavyset woman behind them asked her pencil-thin husband.

Stevie wondered the same. Pictures of European royalty dining inside flashed upon the stained glass windows in her mind. A richly clad lady smiling across a candlelit table at her lover was another of her fanciful musings.

She was drawn to the car by her whimsical flights of fantasy. That's when she noticed the ornate gilt initials painted on the side of the car. H.H.T. She jerked her head in Heath's direction. Surely not.

Jeevers directed the carriage driver to load their luggage inside the Pullman, keeping his own luggage by his side.

Stevie stared at Heath's profile, wide-eyed. She felt a sense of betrayal. The hotel and Jeevers were one thing, but this . . .

She had known that he was well-to-do; financially comfortable was the way he had explained his family's economic status. But he must be a flaming millionaire to own a rail car such as this. Once again the impossibility of their union loomed in her mind, large and threatening. In one instant of painful honesty she had to admit that she was afraid.

Afraid? She was terrified. She had faced a striking rattler with nothing more than a garden hoe for defense and not felt the depth of fear that was clawing at her now. This was too much. She was out of her element, in over her head. Mentally, she searched for further clichés even as she entertained the notion of running as far and as fast as her fancy tooled boots would carry her.

Just as she would have made her cowardly getaway, Heath's unborn child chose that moment to keep her rooted in place. A twenty-foot tidal wave of nausea flowed over her, drenching her in misery from top to bottom. “Ohhh,” she moaned as the sky above her head and the platform beneath her feet changed places. She bent at the waist and fought desperately for breath.

She was about to faint for the first time in her life. She would probably be trampled by the masses gawking at the evidence of Heath's wealth. Her panic rose to the degree that her consciousness wavered. She moaned.

“Honey?” Wheeling toward her, Heath wrapped his arms around her. She lost consciousness and he lifted her high against his chest. Beset by worry, he carried her aboard.

Stevie's first impression was that heaven was made of brocaded satin, polished wood, shiny brass, and pastel pink light.

Her second was that paradise rocked back and forth. She would have to speak to His host of angels about that. Continual motion was not heavenly in her estimation. Not when a gal suffered the evils of morning sickness.

She struggled upright, only to be assaulted by another wave of nausea. This was not heaven. Hell maybe, but not heaven.

Alerted by her sound of distress, Heath crossed the Pullman and knelt at her side. “Honey?” Replacing the cool cloth on her brow, he kissed her cheek lightly. “How do you feel?”

“Sick to my stomach.” She wanted to bite back the words as soon as they slipped past her lips. The last thing she wanted Heath to know was that she was pregnant.

His brow furrowed. “Was it something you ate at the hotel?” Not giving her time to answer, he continued. “We've already left Kansas City. But I'll have the conductor unhitch us in St. Louis. I know a doctor there. He studied with Chap and Rad.”

Stevie opened one eye. She was concerned by the worry and fatigue clouding Heath's visage. “No. I'm all right. We'll go on to New York.”

He wanted to disagree; she could see that. But he also wanted to hurry to his father's side. “I'm fine, really.”

“Why did you faint?”

She tried to sit again. This time she noticed that she was naked beneath the sheet. Clutching the sheet to her chest, she demanded, “Where are my clothes?”

“Gone.”

She looked as if she would do him physical harm.

He arched his eyebrows twice and gave her a seductive grin. He had discarded his vest, pulled his white shirt from the waistband of his jeans, and unbuttoned the shirt hallway down his chest. He was bootless, sockless, and looked like he had been through hell. But sexy and gorgeous just the same.

She experienced the desire only he could call forth. Looking away, she tamped down the inclination to throw her arms around him. “By the way,” she began dryly, “what did you do with Christina?”

“That depends on when you're talking about,” he teased unmercifully.

“Never mind. I don't want to know.” She groaned and fell back to the bed.

He frowned again. “Are you sure you can wait till New York to see a doctor, sugar?”

Alarm bells clanged in Stevie's head. “I didn't say I'd see a doctor in New York.”

He affected a look that was very like Pepper's favorite jackass. “You're not going to see a doctor. You're going to see two doctors. My brothers.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Okay. If you say so, I'll see them.”

He was suspicious of her capitulation, given the mulish look in her eyes.

“But I don't intend to let them see me. Professionally, that is.”

Just as he would argue with her, she declared that she was about to be sick. He wrapped the sheet around her and carried her from the sitting room, through the bedroom, into the bathing area. It held a white porcelain hip bath, chamber pot, and basin. It was the warmest area of the car, too warm given her present condition.

She allowed him to hold her head while she paid homage to the porcelain pot. Mentally, she cursed every male with the equipment to get a woman in the family way.

“Are you comfortable on the lounging sofa, or do you want me to put you to bed?” His smile could only be called a leer.

“The sofa.” Wide-eyed innocence, she added, “It's perfect for one.”

Heath might have told her that two could lie on it quite nicely. But she would undoubtedly ask how he had come about that knowledge. And since gentlemen didn't kiss and tell . . . and she was undoubtedly still smarting about Christina, he decided to keep that information to himself. Smiling mysteriously, he carried her back to the sofa.

“What will Jeevers think if we share this car all the way to New York? I don't want him to think I'm just another of your Christinas.”

“He won't. I told him you're my wife.”

She frowned. “And what do you intend to tell him when we reach your home and he finds out the truth?”

He ignored her question. “I'll think of something. Until then, we're sharing this car and I'm going to take care of you. So you may as well accept the inevitable and save your energy.”

Her frown grew in size and intensity. How would she keep her pregnancy a secret from Heath if they were cooped up in such close quarters day and night? “I don't need a nursemaid . . .” she began. “I can hire a berth in another part of the train and take care of myself.” As if to dispute her bold claim, she turned a curious shade of green.

“Can you make it to the bath this time?”

Lips clamped together, she shook her head, no.

He dove for the shiny brass spittoon across the room and thrust it beneath her face just in time.

The contents of her stomach made a hasty exit. She was desperately ill, terribly confused, and terminally embarrassed, but still in possession of a wry sense of humor. “You sure you wanta share this car with me?”

Heath failed to appreciate the jest. “You're not leaving my sight until I turn you over to Rad and Chap.”

She wanted to disagree, but was too busy being sick to argue.

Stevie confided in the maid who cleaned their rooms that she was pregnant and wanted to keep it a secret from her “husband.” The kind woman smuggled her an ample supply of salty crackers and instructed her to eat several upon awakening, before raising her head off the pillow.

After the first morning, Stevie was quite convinced the woman was brilliant. The crackers worked wonders, temporarily. She was able to make it all the way to the privacy of the bathing area before retching her insides out.

With Heath none the wiser.

 

 

Sitting in the dining area, perusing the morning paper, Heath took a sip of lukewarm coffee.

“More coffee, sir?” the oversolicitous waiter at his elbow asked.

Heath replaced his china cup in the saucer and nodded. He sighed, marveling at how easily he fell back into the role of wealthy gentleman. Turning his head to the side, he caught his reflection in the window. An ebony-haired, sapphire-blue-eyed gunslick smiled back at him. Dressed in jeans, shirt, vest, and boots, his Colt tied to his muscular thigh beneath the table, he looked anything but an aristocratic gentleman. But he would be dressed fit for a morning at his exclusive gentlemen's club when they disembarked in New York. His mother would be scandalized otherwise.

He couldn't help but wonder what Stevie would think of him, all decked out like a Wall Street banker. His smile widened at the notion. As if his thoughts summoned her, she approached. He stood and seated her. His smile disappeared.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

“I don't like the way you look.”

Hormones on the rampage, Stevie drew herself up as if she were insulted. “I'm sorry you don't like my clothes.” In her men's attire, she had been stared at ever since they boarded the train. It was beginning to wear on her nerves. “I'm getting good and damn tired of being gawked at. You'd think these people have never seen a woman in breeches before.”

He hadn't been talking about her clothes, but her tirade distracted him. “They probably haven't. It's against the law, you know.”

“What's against the law?”

“For a lady to dress in men's clothes.”

“You're making that up.”

He laid his hand over his heart, covering his U.S. marshal's star. “Swear to God. It's a misdemeanor.”

“You mean you could arrest me for what I'm wearing.”

“Technically, yes.”

Unease settled on her face.

“Don't worry, hon. When we reach New York tomorrow, I'll have Ann outfit you first thing with one of her frocks.” He shook his head when she began to rebut. “But I wasn't referring to your clothes, and I suspect you know it. I was talking about your skin color.”

Eyes wide, she tossed her head back and opened her mouth to speak.

He seamed her lips with his fingertips. “Don't even think of turning that remark into a racial slur. I declare, you're as ill as a sore-tailed cat. I hardly know what to say to you anymore.” Like most men when confronted with an emotional, irrational female, he was totally at a loss, and utterly bewildered.

Stevie was properly chastised. She knew her emotions were running amuck these days, that it took next to nothing to reduce her to tears . . . or anger. She snapped like an irascible turtle with little or no provocation. “I'm sorry.”

“There's no need to apologize, sugar. I'm just worried about you. You don't look well. You have no color whatever in your cheeks.”

“I'm all right.” She had told him as much a dozen times since leaving Kansas City. “Really.” Her voice quivered and she cursed her missishness.

He reached across the table and covered her hand. “Poor baby.”

A month ago she would have considered the endearment condescending and put a few holes in his hide. But now it touched her. She had become a stranger to herself. Of late, she was unsettled, emotional, unreliable. How was she to get the best of Judge Jack if she couldn't control herself any better than this? Breathing deeply, she looked out the window, pretending to study the countryside rushing past at a rapid twenty-five-mile-an-hour clip.

Heath released her hand as the waiter approached.

“Madam. May I serve you?”

She didn't even turn around. “Tea and dry toast.”

“Sir?”

“I'll have a tall stack of flapjacks, three eggs, biscuits, buttered toast and orange marmalade, oatmeal, sausage, and bacon. And bring us both some orange juice,” Heath ordered his usual breakfast automatically.

Once they were alone, Heath covered her hand again. “Sweetheart, you haven't eaten enough to keep a bird alive on this trip.”

She met his eyes then. “I guess I'm just nervous about meeting your family.”

He nodded, appearing unsettled by her response. An uneasy quiet settled over them until they were served.

“Thank you,” Stevie said weakly, not touching the meager meal before her.

Heath studied her surreptitiously. Instead of diving into his hefty breakfast, he pushed back in his chair.

Stevie raised her gaze and discovered him watching her intensely. She paled. He knew about the baby. She was convinced of it. Dear Lord, what should she do, confess? She still couldn't accept his marriage proposal. Though their love was undeniable, his wealth made her feel as if they were further apart than ever. She needed more time; she just wasn't ready for a lifelong commitment.

But Heath would never give up his child. She knew that as surely as the sun rose and set.

“About my family . . .” he began at length.

Stevie almost collapsed with relief. “What about your family?”

“I feel that I should warn . . . I mean, explain to you about my mother.”

Stevie's brow furrowed. “What about her?”

“She's . . . she's different.”

“And I'm not?” She tried to shrug his concern off.

He searched for words to describe India Turner, words that wouldn't frighten Stevie and send her back to Adobe Wells on the first train traveling west. “Mother's very straight-laced. Some would say intolerant. If she disapproves of a person, she doesn't take great pains to hide the fact. And far as I know, there aren't many people she deems . . . suitable.”

“And you think she won't find me suitable?”

Heath raised his gaze. “Frankly, sweetheart, I doubt it.”

Stevie was surprised. She had been certain that he would lie. That he would reassure her, tell her that his mother would love her, or at least tolerate her.

She wanted to defend herself, persuade him that old people—red and white—usually found her quite worthy of their esteem. The elderly, babies, and animals, they all liked her. Pa said that was to her credit. You couldn't fool old people, babies, and animals. If they liked you, your good character was unquestionable. And they did. They liked her. Old people, babies, and . . .

Heath broke into her silent ravings. “But you must not take anything she says or does personally”—he paused—“you can't imagine how awful she was to Kinsey, Chap's wife.”

“Your mother doesn't like your sister-in-law?”

“Actually, she doesn't like either of them.”

“Whyever not?”

“They're Southerners.”

Her expression was blank. “And?”

“Mother has very strong feelings about class and geographical distinction.”