Rosamunda's Revenge

by Craig, Emma

  Jed fumed for a moment, trying to organize his thoughts. “Well, all I can say is that if you ever stripped naked and frolicked out onto a stage like that, I’d throw a blanket over you and haul you home quicker’n you could spit.”

  A small pause met his vehement declaration. Then Tacita said, “You would?” in a very small voice.

  “Damned right I would.”

  “Oh, Jed, that’s the sweetest thing anybody’s ever said to me in my whole life!”

  As Jed turned to stare at her in astonishment, Tacita latched onto his arm, leaned against him and sighed. He patted her hand because he couldn’t help it, but he knew he’d never understand females if he lived to be a hundred.

  # # #

  Tacita had relished love under the stars. She was nearly overwhelmed by the bliss of love on a feather mattress. This was particularly so because both she and Jed had bathed before the opera, in real tubs, with hot water and fragrant soap. Tacita had even had the foresight to purchase some lavender-scented lotion in the hotel’s gift shop.

  Although it was late by the time they returned from the opera, and their dispute over the relative morality of opera dancers remained unresolved, it didn’t take much time for Tacita to persuade Jed that she needed to use more lotion.

  “My skin has become so dry on the trail, Jed. It feels like sandpaper.”

  “Sandpaper?”

  She nodded and stepped out of her chemise. His eyes bugged for a moment. Then he grabbed the jar of lotion, licked his lips, and gestured to the bed. “Here,” he said, his voice shaky, “I’ll do it.”

  Tacita obliged happily.

  He seemed to take great delight in smoothing the lotion over her body after she climbed onto the bed.

  “I’ve never felt skin like yours, Tacita. It’s not like sandpaper. It’s as smooth as silk.”

  “Really? Even after so long on the trail out in the sun and wind?”

  “Yup.” Jed’s voice sounded gravelly. Tacita was beginning to recognize that quality in his voice as betokening great emotion. She sighed happily and wiggled on the sheets, eliciting a choked growl from him.

  “Thank you,” she said, thinking she’d never received such a pretty compliment from a man before. Or anybody else, either, for that matter.

  Gooseflesh rose on her when she felt his lips caress the path his hands had just smoothed over with lotion. She closed her eyes, thinking that even if she had a lifetime with Jed, she’d never get used to these delicious attentions he lavished upon her. The fact that she didn’t have a lifetime with him, but only another month or so of hard traveling, made her appreciate them all the more. Perhaps other women received these favors with complacence. Tacita’s affectionate heart had never felt the joy of reciprocation, and it didn’t.

  “This lotion was a good idea,” Jed spread his gentle words across her shoulders along with the soothing balm. “It feels real good.”

  “Mmmmm.” Almost beyond words by this time, Tacita managed to turn over and whispered, “Spread some on my front, Jed.”

  She saw him gulp twice before her eyelids fluttered shut again. Then she felt his big hands massaging lotion into her tummy and breasts, her calves and thighs. Heat seemed to radiate from his fingers until Tacita feared she might ignite into an inferno of sensation right here, on the bed, in the Silver Baron Hotel in Denver, Colorado.

  Jed had taught her how to feel these things. Jed had opened her to the magnificence of life. Before she met him, she’d been insulated, isolated from the world of sensation by fear and the conviction of her own lusterless personality. But Jed had been willing to ignore her imperfections. He’d taught her that even so flawed a specimen of womanhood as Tacita Grantham could experience the joys of passion. Oh, how she loved him!

  Because she feared the only words she knew to express her feelings would have disgusted Jed, Tacita lifted her arms.

  Thrusting the jar aside, he accepted her invitation eagerly. He wished he were more loquacious by nature. He longed to tell Tacita how she made him feel. When he was with her, he was a giant, a hero, the ruler in his own universe. With her, he could conquer worlds. Before he met Tacita, he was a rough frontier guide. Now he was a king. No. Better than king, he was a magician.

  It was he who had unearthed the fire in her; he who had stoked the fire until she felt, for the first time Jed was sure, the fullness of her delight. He’d have bet anything that until he bedded her, she didn’t know she possessed such passion.

  Recalling that it had been she who initiated this evening’s joy, Jed’s heart felt full. I love you, whispered through his mind. Only by great force of will did he keep the words from slipping through his lips.

  # # #

  When Jed handed Tacita into the stage the next morning, he knew this was to be the last leg of their journey. This was the final phase. Before long, they would be in San Francisco, California, and he’d be headed back to Busted Flush, Texas. Alone.

  The thought subdued him. He managed a nod for the other passengers, but his heart wasn’t in it. In fact, he’d have a real struggle to keep his heart patched together and in one piece until they arrived in San Francisco and it broke for the last time.

  Pretend, he commanded himself. Pretend. Even if he didn’t have any practice in deceiving himself, he’d be a damned fool if he allowed his ultimate fate to make his last, pitifully few, days with Tacita miserable.

  You’re already a fool, Jed Hardcastle, his brain sang mockingly. He told his brain to be quiet.

  # # #

  Rosamunda eyed the preacher seated across from Tacita on the stagecoach and knew something about him was amiss, although she couldn’t put her paw on what it was.

  There was something about his eyes, she thought. They were too cunning to belong to a man of God.

  Or maybe it was his mouth. It smiled, but the rest of his face didn’t mean it. There were lines around his mouth which hadn’t been created by prior smiles; Rosamunda would bet her jeweled collar on it, if Yorkies did such idiotic things as lay wagers.

  His hands were dirty; maybe that was it. Dirt lodged under his fingernails and in the creases around his wrists. In Rosamunda’s experience, preachers were a tidy lot. They read, prayed, and yakked for a living, and didn’t have much reason to dirty their hands. She couldn’t feature the hands of this stranger pressed together in an aspect of prayer. And before she’d allow him to wave them above her head in a blessing, Rosamunda’d sure want to check to make sure they didn’t hold anything unsavory.

  Maybe it was that turned-around collar of his. It seemed to be chafing his neck, as if it was too tight or he wasn’t used to wearing it. By Rosamunda’s reckoning, this man would be more than thirty in human years. That was plenty old enough to have become accustomed to the trappings of his profession.

  He was wearing boots, too, and they were scuffed and dirty and looked like riding boots. Did preachers ride horses? Rosamunda had never heard about it if they did. Of course out here, she supposed with a sniff, anything was possible. Even if they did, though, nobody had cause to wear riding boots on the stage. Even Jed Hardcastle had abandoned his riding boots for a slightly more civilized pair of shoes. Although, it must be acknowledged, nothing about Jed Hardcastle was very civilized. Whatever Jed’s shortcomings, there was no reason Rosamunda could think of for a minister to be wearing riding boots at all. And if he did, he’d surely take time to shine them up before he undertook a long trip in a stagecoach.

  Before she could figure it out, the man smiled at Mistress and offered her a pleasant, “Good morning, ma’am.”

  Tacita, who didn’t possess a fraction of a Yorkshire terrier’s instincts about such things, smiled back and returned his “Good morning” with one of her own. To Rosamunda’s disgust, she compounded her lack of perception by continuing on in a friendly voice, “Lovely day to begin a journey, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed it is, ma’am.” The man’s expression turned pious. “The Lord has provided us with splendid weather, hasn’t He?”


  When she heard the man’s patent hypocrisy, Rosamunda snarled softly.

  Tacita said with a happy sigh, “He certainly has.”

  Jed climbed into the stage. He looked at the so-called preacher and said “Howdy,” a deplorable word and one Rosamunda hoped she’d never hear again after she got to San Francisco. The preacher “Howdyed” back. Rosamunda lifted a brow and cast him a withering look. He didn’t notice, which figured. Human beings were so obtuse.

  She and Mistress shared the coach with the phony preacher and a fat woman carrying a wicker basket. They all had to scrunch over in their seats because Jed took up so much space. Rosamunda chalked up another transgression against him. He’d accumulated so many by this time they’d be heavier than Rosamunda if anybody cared to weigh them. Renewed indignation over the insults she’d been forced to endure recently made her dig at Mistress’s skirt for a second.

  “Rosamunda! Here, darling, don’t claw my gown.”

  “Cute little thing,” the preacher—or whatever he was—said.

  He reached out to chuck Rosamunda under the chin, a human affront that never failed to offend her. She was about to bite his fingers to let him know in no uncertain terms exactly what she thought of strangers who mauled her, when an idea struck her.

  There was no telling exactly what this man’s game was, but Rosamunda knew he wasn’t what he claimed to be. She also decided it would behoove her to discover his purpose and nullify it, should it turn out to be dangerous to her or to Mistress. The perils the two of them had already suffered on this ill-fated trip made Rosamunda view with caution anything that didn’t fit comfortably into the natural order of things.

  Glaring resentfully at Jed, Rosamunda decided she’d better do it, anyway. Although it galled her to admit it, occasionally Jedediah Hardcastle had demonstrated a grasp of situations that seemed to elude Mistress. It was undoubtedly due to some kind of instinctive, involuntary animal quirk in his nature, since he didn’t otherwise possess wit enough to recognize enemies. He had, however, determined that man on the train was Mr. Cesare. Jed must possess some innate sense, like a coon hound’s snout, that helped him in his line of work.

  At present, however, Jed Hardcastle was as useless as Mistress in these matters. Rosamunda glanced at him once and then looked away again, disgusted. It appeared to her as if Jed were so besotted with Mistress, he wouldn’t notice anything unusual about their traveling companion if he pulled out a gun and shot them all.

  Their safety was up to her, then. So be it. Rosamunda was up to the challenge.

  # # #

  “My goodness!”

  Jed had been staring gloomily out the window at Denver as the stagecoach rambled them through its streets, calculating how many days it would be before he’d have to bid Tacita a final farewell. At her exclamation, he turned, wondering what had prompted it. What he saw surprised him, too. His mouth dropped open in awe, in fact.

  “I’ve never seen her do something like that before in my life.” Tacita’s voice was hushed, as if she’d just witnessed a holy miracle.

  Jed closed his mouth. “Me, neither.” He rubbed his eyes to clear them of impediments. When he opened them again, he guessed they’d been clear all along, because the scene hadn’t changed. Rosamunda still sat on the fake preacher’s lap, and it looked like she aimed to curl up there and take a snooze.

  “I guess she knows a good man when she sees one,” Tacita continued, causing Jed’s gaze to veer from the astonishing sight across the aisle and focus on her.

  Good man? Jed opened his mouth again, then decided not to bother. Hell, it was no skin off his teeth if this fellow wanted to dress up like a parson and if Tacita wanted to believe him. Out in this neck of the woods, people did all sorts of things to escape their pasts. Or their presents, if need be. He didn’t suppose Tacita had to know that, since she wasn’t going to be tarrying here long.

  His innards gave a hard spasm at the thought, and he told himself to stop thinking about when she and he would part. Such thoughts did no good, wouldn’t alter the future, and only made him feel bad.

  # # #

  Gunpowder! Rosamunda sniffed again to be sure. Yes. It was there all right: gunpowder on the fake preacher’s fingers. Humph. The last she’d heard, human preachers didn’t have much to do with guns, fools that they were. If Rosamunda ran things, she’d take all the guns away from bad human beings and give them to the good ones, because they were the only ones fit to use them. Humans, of course, had the whole thing backwards.

  Well, it’s just a good thing she’d decided to follow this course of action, then. Rosamunda, unlike other people she could mention, recognized a possible danger when she saw it. She also knew what to do about one when she was sitting on its lap. So she proceeded to do it.

  Since humans were the way they were, nobody on the stagecoach thought anything about it when she began to burrow under the parson’s coat. Well, perhaps Mistress noticed, because she uttered another exclamation of surprise, but Rosamunda paid her no heed. She went about her business, knowing she was the only sentient creature anywhere around who realized the job had to be done.

  The parson himself had gone to sleep, and was snoring loud enough to rattle the windows on the stagecoach. Not that it would have mattered, since Rosamunda knew how to be silent when she needed to be, and how to insinuate herself into the smallest coat pocket without the pocket’s owner knowing anything about it. She’d have made a good pickpocket if she’d been a human, although humans tended to frown upon pickpockets. Which just when to show what kind of sense they had.

  # # #

  “Is Rosie sick, do you suppose, Tacita?”

  Tacita eyed Rosamunda’s feathery stump of a tail with misgiving. At the moment, it was sticking out from underneath the preacher’s coat tail. “I’m not sure. She seemed perfectly well this morning.”

  “Well, I don’t know if she’s sick or not, but I sure never saw her take to anybody before.”

  “I never did, either. My goodness.”

  Jed shook his head and repeated, “Never saw her take to anybody before.” Although he supposed it would figure that she’d take up with a fraud if she took up with anybody. If he recalled correctly, she’d seemed kind of fond of that Pickywhisky fellow after she got through gnawing on him. Of course, Pinkywinsky had had meat on him, and Rosamunda was the piggiest dog Jed had ever seen in his life. Maybe this preacher carried some jerky around in his pocket. He spared Tacita his unflattering conclusion.

  He saw her gaze at Rosamunda’s tail, a fond smile on her lips, and a curl of jealousy snaked its way through his middle. It figured Tacita would take a fancy to a parson, too. Even a fake one.

  She had no qualms about naked ladies dancing in the opera, and didn’t see anything wrong with people pretending to be ministers of God. Some city girls had their priorities all tumbled around, is all he had to say about it. To make himself feel better, he gave the pretend preacher a good, snarling glare. He got a thundering snore in return, and didn’t feel any better at all.

  Disgusted by everything, Jed decided to ignore the whole lot of them. With an unhappy grunt, he pulled his hat down to cover his eyes, folded his arms over his chest, leaned against the side of the coach, and tried to sleep. The coach springs being what they were and the road being what it was, his attempt met with uneven success.

  # # #

  Rosamunda hoped Mistress would appreciate this. As she spat a hunk of leather into the space between the coach seat and the door, she decided she probably wouldn’t if life continued upon the course it had begun several weeks ago. Which was a lowering reflection, and one Rosamunda had best not contemplate if she expected to save them all from this villain’s fell purpose.

  Well, it didn’t matter. Rosamunda knew where her duty lay, even if this sorry assortment of human beings didn’t. Perhaps her valor would cause Mistress to realize how far she had strayed from goodness and right.

  Peeking out from the preacher’s deep pocket into wh
ich she’d nibbled herself, the sight that greeted her eyes caused her to reassess her prior hope. Mistress and Jed were staring into each other’s eyes as if they were the only two people in the universe.

  Rosamunda dove back into the pocket, almost glad to have it to hide in.

  # # #

  Four strong horses pulled the Butterfield stagecoach across the country at an alarming speed. It wasn’t quite as alarming as that achieved by the train, and the road the stage traveled was much bumpier that the tracks the train rode upon. They still made pretty good time, though, although Tacita wasn’t sure her bottom would survive the trip.

  Every several miles the driver would pull into a stage stop. Immediately men would rush out, unharness the sweaty team, harness up another one, and they’d be off again. Only occasionally were passengers allowed to climb down, shake the kinks out of their aching limbs, and use the necessaries or grab a cup of incredibly bad coffee. She and Jed generally tried to take a few steps out of doors just to keep their circulation going.

  The preacher never debarked at the stage stops. He merely woke with a start, then smiled benevolently and said that he’d use the time to meditate and read passages from his Bible. Unless Tacita insisted, Rosamunda stayed on the stagecoach with him.

  There was very little time to see the sights at these stops. Not that they were worth seeing, being primarily visions of trash that had accumulated around the various stops. Tacita sniffed at the third of these unsightly mounds and decided it would be a good thing for the Wild West if women ever began settling out here.

  Tacita was no fool; she knew as well as anyone that trash had to be dumped somewhere. If women had a hand in things, however, it would be dumped into pits dug especially to accommodate it. No longer would men be allowed to pile their old smelly bottles and tin cans in the backs of wagons, drive them outside of town and leave them in unsightly heaps for the elements to corrode.

  Heaven alone knew when such a softening feminine influence would make its presence felt out here, though. The only woman Tacita had seen so far was the fat, friendly passenger on the stagecoach. The remaining citizens out here along their route seemed to be men. And rough-looking men, at that.