by Craig, Emma
Brow furrowed, she tried to drum up Edgar Jevington Reeve’s image. After several moments of hard thought, she managed. Yes indeed, she thought with a slight smile. Now there was a true gentleman. And a gallant, handsome one, as well.
All at once her mind’s eye pictured Edgar side by side with Jed Hardcastle and poor Edgar seemed to shrink. His shoulders, already narrow, began to stoop. His form, which until now she’d considered interestingly slender, looked skinny. His pallor, which she’d deemed aristocratic, took on a pasty quality.
“Oh, drat it all!” she spat, annoyed into speaking aloud.
Rosamunda, startled, yipped.
Jed turned in his saddle. “Something wrong with you or Rosie, ma’am?”
“Rosamunda,” Tacita corrected automatically. Her smile felt forced. “No. Thank you, Mr. Hardcastle. Nothing’s wrong. I was just—thinking about things.”
One of Jed’s eyebrows rose over a brown eye that looked not merely beautiful to Tacita—outlined as it was in lush black lashes—but also terribly ironic. She pressed her lips together and didn’t say another word.
Rosamunda growled low in her throat and glowered at Jed.
# # #
As far as Jed was concerned Tacita Grantham’s uncle, Mr. Luther Adams Williamson—and why the hell did every fellow she know have two last names?—was no better than a fool. Jed didn’t care how blasted sure Tacita was that she could take care of herself. She wasn’t used to the west, and that uncle of hers had no business leaving her alone in it. All of Jed’s protective instincts—honed to razor-sharpness by his parents and his circumstances—rose in protest against such idiotic behavior.
It wasn’t right and it wasn’t smart. Anything could have happened to her, and she had nothing with which to protect her but that stupid hairy rat of hers.
Not that Jed had any qualms about women’s rights. The females he’d known in his day were every bit as smart as the men. Smarter, most of ‘em. Brains couldn’t combat brawn, though, and Jed knew it even if Tacita would never let herself admit it. And, while Jed’s betrothed, Miss Amalie Crunch, might possess brawn enough to battle any number of men, Miss Tacita Grantham certainly didn’t. She was tiny and petite, looked about as durable as a little glass angel, and—well, Jed decided he’d do better not to dwell on her physical attributes.
What really galled him was her insistence on taking on tasks to which she was unsuited. She had no more business tackling a trek to San Francisco by herself than she had in remaining in a hellhole like Powder Gulch without a capable man to protect her. Or at least a gun she knew how to use. He had a strong suspicion that Miss Grantham had never picked up a gun in her life; he was sure she couldn’t aim and shoot one. Jed snorted. The powder part of Powder Gulch wasn’t talcum, after all.
Shaking his head, he muttered, “City folk.” The two words, to his mind, said it all.
“I beg your pardon?” came from behind him.
He didn’t bother turning. “Nothing, ma’am.”
Neither of them spoke again until long past noon when Tacita asked about lunch. Actually, she asked about “luncheon,” but Jed knew what she meant.
“I got some jerky packed in my saddle bag if you’re hungry. If you want to make good time, though, we’d better eat it while we ride.”
“Oh.” A short silence followed the one word. Then Tacita added, “All right.”
She didn’t sound all right. Jed suspected that silly sidesaddle of hers was already giving her trouble. He’d never been able to figure out how women could stand to ride on those things, so he’d anticipated this. In fact, before they set out he’d gone to the trouble of figuring out where to pack away her sidesaddle when she quit using it. He’d just hoped it would take longer than a couple of hours for her butt and legs to give out on her. He discovered he wasn’t surprised.
Patiently, he asked, “You need to get down and stretch, ma’am?”
Another brief silence followed his question. When she spoke, her words came out as stiff as he expected her muscles felt. “Would it engender too long a delay?”
“No, ma’am. At the moment, we’re right on schedule.”
“Then why did you say we should eat while riding?” She sounded irked.
“Because we’re sure to run into delays farther along. I don’t want to get any behinder than we have to in the beginning.”
“What sorts of delays, if I might ask?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I only know there’ll be some.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! I do believe you’re merely being recalcitrant. In that case, let us rest for a brief time, if you please.”
Re-what? Jed didn’t ask. “Whatever you say, ma’am.”
He reined in his horse, Charlie, and dismounted, paying no attention to Tacita. If she was so dad-blasted set on taking care of herself, Jed guessed he’d let her, even though it did cause his conscience a twitch or two. Then he decided his ma and pa hadn’t anticipated anybody like Tacita Grantham when they’d taught him manners. If they had, he expected they’d have prepared him for the contingency and advised him to do just as he was doing.
He dropped the reins over Charlie’s head, hobbled the pack mules, and reached into the saddlebags for a handful of grain for each animal. After he saw to the cattle, he’d fetch water and jerky.
That was the way things were done out here on the frontier. A man saw to his animals first; without ‘em he’d be dead meat. The sooner this blasted, stubborn city woman learned that lesson, the better off they’d both be.
His head snapped up when he heard Tacita’s tiny, “Mr. Hardcastle?” Turning, he saw that Tacita hadn’t yet dismounted. She held the rat in her arms as if for security. It scowled at him. He scowled back.
“Yes, ma’am?”
She needed help. He could see it. He’d be damned if he’d offer, though, and get his head bitten off for his efforts. Let the exasperating female ask. It’d do them both good if he made her admit that she needed him.
“I—um—I can’t seem to get my lower appendage to lift over the leaping tree.”
Jed felt his eyebrow lift. What in the name of Glory was her lower—oh. “Do you mean your leg, ma’am?”
Blushing furiously, Tacita mumbled, “Yes.”
He’d figured as much. Although it galled him, he found himself asking, “Need help, ma’am?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.” Her voice was muffled in the fur of her rat.
Mind? Except that he wanted to punish her for being silly and he worried about the rat biting him, Jed couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do than put his great big hands about that little tiny waist of hers and heft her to the ground. With any luck, her legs would have fallen asleep and he’d have to keep his arm around her for a while to keep her upright.
Of course, it would be a hell of a lot more fun to hug her if she were as nice as she was pretty. Still, Jed reckoned a man had to settle for what he had on hand.
He shook his head, mad at himself for harboring such thoughts about his employer, and walked over to assist her.
He held his arms up, expecting her to put her hands on his shoulders. He hadn’t reckoned on the hell-bent terrier.
Rosamunda, appalled by the specter of so large and vicious a creature as Jedediah Hardcastle reaching for her mistress, did the only thing a dog in her position could do—providing the dog in question possessed the heart of a lion and cared for its mistress as much as Rosamunda cared for Tacita.
She lunged, snarling, out of Tacita’s arms, landing on Jed’s buckskin-clad arm, and sank her teeth into him.
Chapter 3
Luther Adams Williamson sat in a honky-tonk in El Paso, Texas, and wished with all his heart he were somewhere else. Anywhere else. A tinny piano played an ironically cheerful accompaniment to the sinister dealings he was here to undertake. His hand shook. When he looked down to see if he’d sloshed his beer, he noticed that in the dismal light of the saloon his skin had a taken on ghastly greenish pallor. He wasn
’t surprised. He felt green, thanks to the terror raging in his middle.
“But I tell you, Mr. Agrawal, I couldn’t get at it. She wears the damned thing day and night.”
A man in a white turban sat across from him. He tapped one thin brown finger on the table. The white of his head gear was an almost shocking contrast to his swarthy skin. On the other hand, just about anything would shock Luther at the moment. The man’s thin smile and rhythmic tapping didn’t make Luther feel better at all. In fact, they gave him the creeps.
“I can see no need for profanity in this case, Mr. Williamson,” Agrawal purred gently. “If there is a problem, I am sure we can deal with it. You did promise us the Delhi Hahm-Ahn-Der Eye, you know.”
“I know, I know. But she never takes the damned thing off.”
The fellow clucked his tongue in disapproval. “Such language, Mr. Williamson. We’re discussing a religious artifact, you know, and one that was stolen from my people more than a century ago. Now you claim to have discovered its whereabouts, and I have paid you a good deal of money to secure it so that I may take it back to India where it belongs.”
Luther slugged back his beer. “Yes. Yes, I understand.”
“I have, as a Brahmin, already violated caste by crossing the ocean, Mr. Williamson. I have done it for the glory of the goddess and the good of my people. At this point there is not very much at which I will shrink to achieve my goals.” Agrawal gave Luther another slithery smile.
Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord. Luther swallowed convulsively and wished he had another beer or three. “I—I understand, Mr. Agrawal. Truly, I do. And I tried. But every time I got near her, that wretched dog of hers started yapping. You must understand that I couldn’t hurt my own niece!”
Avinash Agrawal’s smile gave Luther the chills and the shivers. Those black eyes of his gleamed like onyx through his heavy, slitted eyelids. “Ah,” Agrawal said silkily.“I can certainly understand family affection.”
Luther wasn’t sure, but he suspected Agrawal was mocking him. Because he pretty much lived on hope these days, he murmured, “I’m glad you see it that way.” Sweat trickled down his neck and under his collar and made his skin itch. He didn’t dare scratch for fear one of Agrawal’s henchmen, whom he knew were lurking somewhere just out of his sight, would fling a knife at his back. “I’ve already sent somebody out after them. I’m sure we’ll have the emerald back soon.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Mr. Williamson.” The turbaned man’s smile broadened. “Shall we say, by the time another month has passed?”
“A month?” Luther gulped again. “A month?” Oh, good God, would a month be enough time? “I—I hope I can get it by then.”
After a too-long pause, during which Luther could swear the man’s dark, dark eyes actually, honest-to-God, glittered, Agrawal said, “And well you should hope so, my dear friend.”
Luther almost slithered off his chair and into a faint on the dirty floor of the saloon.
# # #
Jed, Tacita and Rosamunda camped that night in a grove of oaks, willows, scrub brush and cottonwoods beside the Rio Peñasco. All day long, they’d been following the river, and Rosamunda knew for a fact that her Mistress was worn to a nub. Her obvious exhaustion hadn’t moved their miserable keeper into slowing their pace or allowing her to rest, though. A slave-driver is what that human was, and Rosamunda resented him for Mistress’s sake. And because he had the unmitigated effrontery to dare call her Rosie. Rosie! Rosamunda couldn’t stand it.
He had ultimately called a halt to their journey only after Rosamunda feared Tacita was about to fall off of her horse. Then he’d taken care of the stupid horses and mules and built a fire before he’d even said a word about food. They still hadn’t eaten, because he had to have his wounds taken care of. Wounds! Ha!
The sun had begun to set, and the river bubbled along beside them, sounding happy. Rosamunda wasn’t happy. She sulked beside the fire while Tacita rebandaged Jed’s arm.
Rosamunda felt very put-upon. After all, how could she have known the big brute had been in the act of a kind-hearted deed. When she’d seen him reaching for Mistress, she’d naturally assumed he was bent upon mischief. After all, he was a dreadful person. Kindheartedness on his part seemed totally out of character.
What really hurt was that Mistress had snapped at her for misbehaving. Misbehaving! Rosamunda!
Rosamunda’s ears drooped and her shoulders hunched, and she held her head in a manner bespeaking absolute dejection. At least she hoped it did, for that was her aim. And she hoped Mistress felt really guilty about it, too.
Under her shaggy brow—she’d lost her pretty pink ribbon when she’d tried to rescue Tacita from Jed—she watched the goings-on under the big oak tree. She didn’t like what she saw or heard, although she was pleased to note that Mistress at least defended her.
“She was only trying to protect me, Mr. Hardcastle, and I think it’s cold-hearted of you to keep harping on the matter. You weren’t badly hurt at all and it’s over now. It’s been over for hours.”
“It may be over for you, Miss Grantham. As for me, my arm still hurts.” Jed shot Rosamunda a hot scowl. She lifted her lip in a snarl.
“Oh, stop it! It’s a mere scratch.” Tacita sounded less sure than hopeful.
“Scratch, my ass,” Jed muttered. Tacita’s face flamed. Rosamunda growled.
“Please!” Tacita said.
“Well, the damned dog bit me! I’ve got me a bunch of little tooth holes in my arm.”
Rosamunda would like to put holes in his head. Since she was still sulking, she didn’t race over to make the attempt. Besides, she figured he already had some.
“She was trying to protect me,” Tacita repeated staunchly. Rosamunda appreciated her more in that moment than she could say. Not that she could say anything, but still . . .
“Humph.”
Rosamunda saw Tacita’s lips press together. She recognized that look on her mistress’s face; it meant Tacita was trying not to holler.
Rosamunda was considering the merits of giving up her sulk for another attack on Jed, thereby risking Tacita’s greater displeasure, when a rustling sound nearby caught her attention. Forgetting her hang-dog expression, she perked up her ears. She was sure that sound boded ill.
Now, it was true that Rosamunda was no expert on the dangers to be found in the Wild West, although she knew they must be legion. Nor did she particularly want to learn about them, having already come to the conclusion that the West was nowhere she wanted to be.
It was, however, her job to protect Tacita. The very idea of Jedediah Hardcastle trying to wrest the job of Protector from her made her hackles rise. And since he was over there being nasty to Mistress, and Rosamunda was the only one who seemed to be paying any attention at all to possible lurking perils, she supposed it was up to her to challenge this one.
On the alert, she listened for all she was worth. The sound came again, louder this time.
Aha! She knew it! Something or somebody was approaching their camp, stealthily, through the trees. Rosamunda quietly rose to her feet and assumed her pouncing stance.
There it was! Yapping fit to kill, Rosamunda launched herself upon the interloper, who promptly let out with a startled shout.
“Shit! What the hell’s that?”
Jed was on his feet in a split-second, his gun drawn. He rose in such a rush that he inadvertently knocked Tacita onto her hindquarters in the dirt.
She screamed.
The dog growled murderously.
The man to whose boot she had attached herself looked down at his foot in astonishment. Rosamunda clung like an octopus to his foot, her front paws wrapped around his ankle. She looked like she was trying to chew a hole in the calf of his boot.
Jed allowed himself one brief curse. He did not, however, lower his gun. In fact, after his initial rush of alarm passed, he aimed it higher, at the fellow’s head, and cocked it. He’d never seen the likes of this creature before, and he didn’t aim
to fool around. A bullet in the brain-pan was a sure thing.
The man stood about mid-height, but he carried a lot of weight on his frame. His beard was so dark it looked as though he’d dipped it in boot-black, and it was as bushy as one of those fool Russian thistles that blew around all over the prairie these days. His eyes were blamed near as black as his beard, and he wore so many colors on his person they hurt Jed’s eyes. He found himself having to blink.
From her perch in the dirt, Tacita cried, “Why did you do that?”
Jed frowned when her shriek pierced his eardrums. Without looking at her, he said, “Hush up.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her rise in a huff, albeit slowly, and slap her skirt to get the dust out. He expected she’d wanted to leap to her feet, but her muscles were too sore. For the first time today, he was grateful she’d decided to use that blasted sidesaddle.
Using his best, most intimidating grumble, he directed a question at the stranger. “Who the hell are you?”
The stranger wasn’t paying attention. He was too busy trying to shake Rosamunda from his foot. He was hollering in some language Jed had never heard before.
Tacita moved forward until she stood next to him. She lifted a hand to her mouth and looked worried.
“Oh, poor Rosamunda! I hope he doesn’t hurt her.” She took another step forward and cried, “Stop that, you vicious lout!”
Because he already knew her, Jed clamped a hand on her shoulder, never lowering his gun.
She turned to glare up at him. “Let me go! I have to rescue my dog.”
Shaking his head in pure wonder at her assessment of the situation, Jed said, “He isn’t hurting Rosie. I’ll detach your damned dog. You stay here.”
He muttered, “Cripes,” as he released the hammer on his gun and made his way to the melee. Once he got there, he carefully wrapped his bandanna around his hand—just in case the rat-assed terrier had any further designs on his own already punctured person—and then wrapped his hand around Rosamunda.
