The Half-Breed's Woman

by Cheryl Pierson

  “Room service!” Callie wailed.

  “Well, I didn’t see any alternative,” he explained calmly to the pile of covers. “You’ve been sick, and climbing stairs right now is no picnic for me, so—”

  “I’m ruined. Ruined!”

  Jax sighed. “Are we back to that again? It’s not as if we’ve actually done anything—”

  “We’ve slept together!” Callie yelled in frustration. “In the same bed!”

  A discreet, hesitant tapping sounded at the door just then.

  “Well, I guess you straightened that out for everyone, Sarah,” Jax commented wryly. “Room service. Better answer the door. I’m in no shape to do so.”

  “Neither am I! I have no pants on!”

  “You what?”

  “I have no pants on!”

  Jax grinned as she gave a frustrated wail, the realization swift and sure that she’d also “straightened that out for everyone” as well. The hesitant knock came weakly once more.

  Jax laughed, shaking his wet head, not bothering to hide his amusement any longer. “You’re gonna have to unlock the door, Sarah,” he told her. “Hold on a minute!” he called more loudly.

  Callie uncovered her head and rose from the bed. She shot Jax a glare as she regally crossed the room. As she reached to turn the key in the lock, she heard a louder click behind her. She turned to look at Jax, who held the revolver trained on the door.

  “Go ahead. Open it up.”

  Callie turned the knob, and swung the door inward, trying to shield herself behind it.

  Jax lowered the revolver below the rim of the tub. “Put it over there.” He motioned toward the small table beside the window. “Oh, and we need another stack of wood, Danny. We didn’t get any today.”

  “Yes, Marshal,” the waiter nodded nervously. “I’ll let Tony know. He said you—uh—probably wouldn’t want to be disturbed. We’ll have it up for you right way.”

  Callie turned the key in the lock behind the man. She glanced at Jax, his wet hair dripping, midnight-dark eyes glinting with laughter.

  “Maybe we should just hang out a “Do Not Disturb” sign, Jaxson McCall!”

  “Maybe,” he agreed. The smile slowly left his face. “But I promise you, if we do that, a helluva lot of things inside this room—between us—will change. You’d better ponder that carefully before you suggest it again…Sarah.”

  She turned away and went to the table, taking the chair with her that they normally propped under the door. She looked back over her shoulder at Jax as she placed the chair beside the small table.

  “Shall I cover my head again, Marshal, or will turning my back do?”

  “Your choice.” He gave her an intense, hot look. “It really makes no difference to me if you do either.” With that, he stood up.

  ****

  Callie gave a gasp of shock. “Jax!” she managed after a moment. But she didn’t look away, couldn’t tear her eyes from his lean, hard body, the forbidden male anatomy. Her eyes rounded, moving over him. She tried to look anywhere but his direction, but she only managed to get as far as the dark swirls of dripping hair at his chest, down to the contracted muscles of his belly. His sex thrust forward, and he made no move to cover himself.

  Water sluiced from his body with the sudden movement, running in rivulets down his abdomen and…lower. Her eyes followed the shining small rivers the droplets made across his dark skin as they traced a path back toward the tub. Callie found that it was impossible to look away. Worse, she knew he was watching her reaction with smug satisfaction.

  Finally, he reached for the towel. “You must like what you see, chica,” he drawled.

  At the sound of his husky words, Callie clapped a hand over her eyes. She turned away from him. “Have you no shame?” she asked in a choked voice.

  “Not much.”

  Her thoughts catapulted and whirled, her heart pounding fiercely against her chest. She slowly removed her hand from her eyes and gripped the back of the chair as she stared out the window, not focusing on anything. She could hear him behind her, drying himself, toweling his hair, then pulling on his clean jeans. He’d buttoned them quickly, she thought, as she turned to see him grimacing as he picked up the chair he’d placed beside the washtub earlier. He returned it to its place at the small table, then came to Callie, taking her shoulders in his hands. Slowly, he massaged the stiffness from them as he stood behind her. “What are you looking at out there?”

  “Nothing, really. Just the sky. It seems the further west I go, the bigger the sky gets. In Wash-New York,” she corrected quickly, “you can’t see much of the sky. It’s not like here.”

  Jax smiled, and she gave him a questioning look over her shoulder. He shook his head, the movement of his hands stopping. “You sound—wistful. As if you miss—New York.”

  She turned to face him, and glanced down, unwilling for him to catch the lie in her eyes. “I don’t miss it. I love the openness of this place.”

  “They call Montana the ‘Big Sky Country’,” he murmured.

  “Have you been there?” She brought her head up quickly, unable to keep the excitement from her expression and her tone.

  Jax smiled. “You look like a kid on Christmas morning.” He pulled a chair out for her. “I’ve been just about everywhere—at least once.” He reached for his saddlebag and took out his last clean shirt, shrugging into it as Callie sat down.

  He lit the table lamp, frowning at the window as he did so.

  “What’s wrong?” Callie asked, catching the look.

  “Get up a minute, sweetheart. Let me move this table over, away from the window.”

  “You think we’re in danger? Here?” But when he didn’t answer, she stood up and helped him move the chairs. She reached for the lamp as Jax lifted the small table and put it in the protected corner of the room.

  “Jax, really. I appreciate your caution, but—” The rest of her sentence was cut off as the whine of a bullet shattered the window and burst the bottom of the kerosene lamp she held.

  Kerosene splattered across the floor. She shrieked, reflexively jerking her hand away. The globe and wick, still burning, dropped to the wood floor with a splintering crash, and the room was instantly aflame.

  “Jax!” Callie stepped back, trying to avoid the flames. Jax’s big hands locked around the edge of the washtub and, with a mighty shove, he turned it over. Water flooded across the floor, dousing the flames almost as soon as they had sprung up.

  “Dammit!”

  Callie huddled in a ball on the bed, his too-big shirt swallowing her. She drew her bare feet up under the hem of it, wrapping her arms around her knees.

  “You okay, sweetheart?”

  She nodded. “I—I think so. Just shaken up a little.” She peered at him closely. “What about you, Jax? Your side—”

  He waved a negligent hand. “I’ll be all right. Just toss me my boots.”

  The sound of several people pounding up the stairs came to them. Jax pulled on his boots and strapped his gunbelt on as someone knocked on the door.

  “Jax? You okay in there?”

  Jax grinned at Callie. “Tony. He’ll have me paying for this too. Pretty soon, I’ll own the damn place myself.”

  He turned the key, opening the door. “We’re all right, Tony. Just in need of another room for the night. This one’s a little wet—” his eyes drifted to the shattered window, “—and drafty.”

  “You got it, Marshal. Right this way.”

  Inwardly, Callie groaned. The whole hotel, guests and employees, turned out to see her—Marshal Jaxson McCall’s woman—paraded down to the far end of the hall in her supposed lover’s shirt—and nothing else—to their new room.

  She might as well give up and just accept it. She would forevermore be recognized as a harlot in Fort Smith. Tomorrow morning couldn’t come soon enough. She patted her valise in reassurance. Things would be better tomorrow. They certainly couldn’t get any worse. She’d be leaving Fort Smith behind.
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br />   Their new room was much the same as the previous one, but a little larger. Once inside, Jax moved their table to the front of the fireplace, laying a fire the moment they’d come in. Callie shivered uncontrollably. Stripping the blanket from the bed, he wrapped it around her waist and legs. She sat, staring into the flames, trying to absorb the heat. She was suddenly freezing, the shock of the evening overcoming her. The danger was very real—just as Jax had thought.

  Jax touched her arm, calling her out of her thoughts as he strode past her to answer the door—a replacement meal for the one he’d ordered for them earlier. Once again, Danny unloaded his tray upon the small table and left.

  Jax sat down across from Callie, and she finally met his eyes. His lips quirked. “Are you hungry?”

  The tender concern in his voice took Callie by surprise. She gulped and blinked, then nodded. “Yes. I am. Even after all that.”

  “That’s a good sign.” He reached to uncover one of the dishes, and as he did so, a white envelope fell to the floor. He reached down to retrieve it, opening it carefully and slipping out the paper inside.

  NEXT TIME I WON’T MISS

  “Jax? What is it?” Callie reached to take it from him. She read it twice, then tossed it into the fire, her eyes going to his. “I tried to say it earlier. I really do mean it. I appreciate your caution. Thank you.” She took his hand and squeezed it gently. “Thank you for keeping me safe.”

  He smiled at her, returning the squeeze. “It’s my job,” he murmured.

  But they both knew it had become more than that.

  Chapter 7

  “Good riddance!”

  Callie turned abruptly to face the well-dressed woman who sailed past her in the hotel lobby. Jax had just finished settling up with the hotel clerk for their room and the damages to the dining area. The arm he placed about her shoulders turned to steel as Callie stopped, unsure that she had heard correctly. When she ventured a glance back, she was certain that the woman had spoken the words by the smug look on her face.

  “Ignore it,” Jax said tightly. “You’ll never see her again anyway.”

  “I told you this would happen!” Callie seethed in a low, biting voice. “Jax, this is—this is terrible!”

  Jax turned to her in the hotel doorway, giving her a languid smile. “Terrible, huh. Worse than being dead, Sarah?”

  Her lips thinned mutinously at his words. “Don’t turn it into something it’s–it’s not! I never said that. It’s just that—now they all think…”

  He took her arm and steered her across the street toward the stage office. “They all think you’re my…woman.” His fingers tightened on her arm. “And you think that’s worse than being dead?”

  Callie stopped and rounded on him in the middle of the busy street. He jerked her from the path of a wagon loaded heavily with supplies as the driver yelled a frightened warning.

  “Damn it!” Jax exploded as the wagon roared by, barely missing them. “Are you that eager for it, Miss Smith?”

  “N-No, I—” Her hands trembled in his, and he squeezed them in silent apology. She looked up at him, aware of his arms still holding her tightly, the proximity of their bodies far too close. “Jax, I—please let me go,” she whispered. She felt his grip loosen, then he dropped his hands.

  He nodded. “Yeah, all right.” He passed a hand over his face. “Look, I know this isn’t the ideal situation, but…can’t you trust me? Just a little? I’m doing what I can to protect you. You may not see the need for it, but believe me—it’s there.”

  Why? The question hovered on her lips. But if she dared to ask it, she would have to trust him enough to confide in him. She looked at him for a long moment. “I do trust you, Jaxson. This is all just—hard for me.”

  “Hard for me, too,” he muttered, then shook his head quickly. “Come on. We better get you on over to the stage. It’s nearly time.”

  “Hard, how?” Callie asked. But Jax ignored her as they walked the few remaining steps to where the stagecoach stood. Callie noticed two other women standing together as she and Jax approached. As Jax took her ticket from her and showed it to the driver, Callie felt their eyes boring into the back of her neck. She turned slowly, catching a malicious glint in the older, heavy-set woman’s eyes. Callie moistened her lips, and Jax turned to see what was making her so nervous. The other woman glanced away, the gleam of righteous indignation still in the expression she’d speared Callie with.

  Jax took Callie’s fingers in his, handing her up into the stage with a reassuring look. “I’ll be here with you.”

  But not really, Callie thought. She tried to smile at him, but the worry ate at her. He hesitated, then turned away, as the livery owner approached him. He was leading a beautiful dark horse over to where Jax stood waiting. Callie seated herself beside the far window facing forward. She wanted to be able to see what was coming, not what they’d left behind. A feeling of loneliness washed over her as she watched Jax walk over to speak with the shotgun rider for a moment before mounting his big black.

  The matronly woman climbed in, giving a disdainful sniff. She took the seat opposite Callie’s, moving over to make room for her younger companion.

  “Hello,” Callie ventured.

  Neither of them spoke. The older woman gave her a fish-eyed stare, while the younger one, just a few years older than Callie, looked across at her curiously.

  Callie glanced away, her attention drawn by the next two passengers who climbed through the doorway. A clergyman wearing a high white collar and black frock coat handed his wife up, next to Callie. He took the seat on the end, beside the door.

  Callie’s spirits sagged even further as she gave the couple a tentative smile. The preacher would spend the entire ride to Amarillo trying to save her soul—the soul of a fallen woman. If he didn’t know already that she was Jax’s supposed “woman”, she’d have to try to keep up a pretense. One look across the coach at the two travelers she’d tried to speak to earlier told her that wouldn’t last long. The older one would be more than happy to spill her guts to the preacher, and conversion would commence. For four-hundred-and-fifty long, long, miles.

  The reverend and his wife introduced themselves to the heavy-set Tildy Rienholdt and her niece, MayBell. They seemed unaware of the frostiness those two women projected at Callie who sat quietly as they made their introductions. After a moment, the clergyman’s round-faced wife turned to Callie. “Hello, my dear,” she cooed. “I’m Cara Manley, and this is my husband, the Reverend Talmadge Manley.”

  “Pleased to meet you, both,” Callie responded genuinely. “I’m Sarah Smith.”

  A loud “hmph” sounded from across the coach. “Jezebel Smith,” Tildy Rienholdt proclaimed.

  Callie’s eyes held the older woman’s. “Sarah,” she repeated firmly, then turned back to Cara Manley. “Rhymes with Cara, Mrs. Manley. Easy to remember.”

  “Oh. Yes, well…‘Cara’ means ‘darling’ in Italian. Did you know that?”

  “Why, no, I didn’t. That’s very interesting.” Callie felt her earlier anger and embarrassment melt away at the kindness in Mrs. Manley’s voice.

  “Where are you headed, my dear?” Reverend Manley asked as the conversation lulled.

  “To Hell!” Tildy answered, levering her bulk forward in the seat. “That’s where she’s headed!”

  “Aunt Tildy!” MayBell exclaimed.

  “Her sinful nature has proven itself!” Tildy turned baleful eyes to Callie, who sat in stunned silence. “Don’t think we don’t know who and what you are,” she spat venomously. “Not only a woman of ill repute, but one who fornicates with–savages.” She breathed the last word as if she’d said ‘demons’ instead. She looked triumphantly at Reverend Manley.

  He gave her a thin smile. “You seem to think her sin of—fornication—is worse because she has committed it with a—savage. Who is this Indian, may I ask?”

  “Right yonder, Reverend.” Tildy lifted the shade and craned her neck around, then pointed out
the window. “That Marshal,” she spat. “Jaxson McCall.”

  “His father is Scotch-Irish, Reverend,” Callie explained. “His mother was Cherokee,” she added, glancing defiantly across the space at the other woman who seemed so bent on destroying her.

  “Really.” The preacher raised a graying brow. “That’s quite extraordinary.” He pulled his pipe out and began to pack it with aromatic tobacco. “It seems the marshal and I have a bit of something in common.”

  “Whatever could that be?” Tildy smirked.

  He turned his midnight blue gaze on her. “Our parentage,” he replied serenely after a moment. “You see, my mother was…a savage as well, ma’am. Lakota Sioux.” He lit the pipe and took a deep draw in the shocked silence. “A marshal and a preacher. Not too bad, I’d say, for a race of people that President Andrew Jackson declared mere animals. Some of us,” he added pointedly, “are more human—and civilized—than our European-born counterparts, hmm?”

  After a moment, the heavy-set woman leaned against the back of the seat and closed her eyes without responding to Manley.

  The preacher reached across his wife and clasped Callie’s hand firmly. “If you wish to confess your sins, child, I’m here. I will pray for you, no matter what.”

  Callie managed to smile at him. “Thank you, Reverend.”

  ****

  It was nearly dark when they pulled into the stage station where they would spend the night. The stone and wood hostelry was lit with welcoming light that beckoned as they drew to a halt at the front door. The passengers crawled out, their legs stiff from the long hours of cramped sitting.

  Callie took her valise from under the seat, the last one out the door. The stage driver helped each of the passengers down carefully, then he and his shotgun rider unhitched the team and led the horses to the corral for the night.

  As Callie’s eyes searched the early twilight, she saw Jaxson dismount slowly. His side must be hurting him. It would have been a long hard day in the saddle for any man, she thought, but for one with broken ribs, it must have seemed endless.