He wiped his nose on his stiff, red-flannel sleeve. "I might. What's in it fer him?"
What would convince a man like this? Glee bit her lip. "I suppose I could... pay him something."
"Humph. What size group ya got? Might be that I'd be available to show ya the way, but I ain't interested in leadin' a bunch o' women with screaming brats, or duded up city folks thinkin' ta see the countryside."
"There are four of us, two men and two women. All adults, I assure you."
His eyes narrowed. "You got wagons, horses?"
She shook her head. "Not yet. It seemed prudent to find out just what might be required and then purchase what was needed."
"Why ain't yer men makin' these arrangements? They sick 'r scared 'r somethin'?"
"No, they're perfectly healthy. They are foreign, and don't speak English very well, otherwise they'd be having this conversation with you." And Lord how she wished it was them handling this instead of her!
"Feriners," he scoffed. "You ain't in no trouble with the law, are ya, lady?"
"Of course not," she replied, her voice taking on the tone she had adopted when bartering for goods in more than one marketplace. "If you're not interested in this arrangement, Mister uh... Mister, I'm sure some other person can be found." She turned to walk away.
"Now just hold yer horses," he called.
She paused and turned back to see him scratching his dirty beard as he considered.
"I'm stayin' at the Green Garter Saloon. Name's Jake Fletcher. You and yer group meet me outside the place in two hours and I'll take ya ta get supplies. Ya'll need a lot o' stuff. Sure you can afford it?"
She nodded. "I'm sure."
He gave her another assessing stare, then turned on his heel and left.
Back at the hotel, Glee’s servants were practically pacing the floor as they waited. Hakki and Erdogan were not particularly interested in going on this journey. Nevertheless, they were decidedly loyal and tenacious.
Amina, however, found the entire situation untenable and made no bones about saying so in her unique hand language.
* * * *
After enduring two days, and nights, of Amina's dark scowls and Erdogan's whining and hand-wringing, Glee's nerves were strung tight. How many times did she have to tell them that she could not return to Boston? And after two days in St. Joseph, she was convinced she couldn't stay through the rest of autumn and then winter here either.
People here were narrow-minded, uneducated, and downright nasty to strangers. Glee had had to defend Erdogan from more than one ill-mannered person who instantly thought that not understanding English was tantamount to being deaf or half-witted. Of course, Erdogan's defensive attempts at the language only made things worse, and it seemed that he was forever falling into tears of frustration and fear when the ridicule became most sharp. People didn't respect men who cried, and finally Glee ordered Erdogan to stay at the hotel until they were set to depart. His hurt expression made her feel guilty, but she told herself that it was for his own good. She had things to do; things more important than defending a sobbing eunuch at every turn.
Hakki was the only bright spot in Glee's harried life. He stoically accepted the news of their departure for California, never batting an eye, even when faced with Jake Fletcher. It was obvious that he didn't like the unpleasant man, and Glee felt much the same way, but at least Hakki had the good sense to keep his opinion to himself. His tall, dark, presence, now garbed in the flannel and denim appropriate to both the climate and the rigors of the journey, gave Glee a feeling of safety. He even convinced Erdogan to cooperate and wear the new broad-brimmed Stetson she purchased for him.
Amina had cooperated too, but she was tight-lipped and uncommunicative. The girl had been appalled after meeting their guide, and had delivered quite a lecture when Glee and she had finally returned to the hotel that first night. Weary and worried, Glee had snapped impatiently at her friend, causing a rift. A rift which Glee regretted, but saw no way to mend. They were going to California with Jake Fletcher, and that was that.
The sun was barely stirring dust motes in the little hotel room when Glee picked up her small bundle of yesterday's clothing and headed for the door. "Have we missed anything, Amina?"
The dark-skinned maid followed Glee out into the hall, shaking her head. Hakki and Erdogan came from their room and preceded the women down the stairs.
The hotel concierge eyed the odd group with ill-concealed disdain as Glee paid the bill. It made her stiffen her spine and, balancing her bundle on one hip, reach up to adjust the angle of her Stetson, settling it further forward on her scarf-covered head. A more rakish angle, she hoped. Amina had opted for a more traditional full-brimmed bonnet, and Glee wondered fleetingly if she should have done so also. That thought was lost, however, as Jake Fletcher came into the hotel lobby.
"Oxen 'r' yoked and we're all ready. Let's get the hell outta this piss hole."
Though she would never have put it that way, Glee's sentiments were remarkably similar.
Few souls stirred from their homes so early, and they made their way to the wagon staging area without encountering anyone. A canvas-covered wagon was fully prepared, four sturdy oxen yoked in front and supplies loaded within. Erdogan climbed into the vehicle first and swept aside the front flap, disappearing within. Amina followed him, and Hakki waited for Glee.
Intent on stowing her little bundle in the back of the wagon, Glee walked to the rear of the conveyance only to come to a grinding halt when she spotted a pair of horses tied to the back. She'd known horses were necessary for the journey, but even so, she could not overcome her fear. It seemed as though every childhood terror came flooding back in the briefest of seconds to leave her pale and shaking. She was so affected, that she didn't notice the long-limbed stranger who sat casually on the tail of the wagon between the horses' heads.
Glee stood in indecision for several minutes, watching the beast's tails swish back and forth, eyeing their heavy flanks and sharp hooves with unconcealed concern. She bit the fullness of her lip, trying to convince herself that they were just dumb animals. They had no animosity toward her, no malign intent. She took two hesitant steps forward before she was halted by a deep voice.
"You'll be living your worst nightmare if you continue that way," he said.
Glee's turquoise gaze moved from the horses to the source of the rich, lightly accented, very male, voice. Tawny-gold eyes locked gazes with her own turquoise ones and she blinked at the intensity, the strength which sparkled like gold flecks in their depth. Those golden orbs were in startling contrast with the rest of his well-sculpted face. Dark hair, black perhaps, though it was difficult to tell in the shadow of his weathered hat, waved over his ears and framed a deeply tanned, dark-bearded countenance. His shoulders were broad, impossibly so, Glee thought, beneath the tattered yellow and black plaid of his flannel shirt. She might have been counting buttons, so slowly did her gaze travel down the stranger's chest to halt abruptly at the manacles which secured his thick red-ridged wrists. Immediately, she frowned, and turquoise met gold again.
"Who are you?"
He shrugged. "Not your guardian angel, dama. Lady. But still I will tell you not to try to sneak up behind the horses."
"I wasn't sneaking."
"Whatever you say, but your quaking was not enough to alert them to your presence. They would have been startled and stomped you into the dirt."
Glee paled. "I'm not usually such a coward, but horses have always set me on edge."
"Mmhmm," he replied, disinterest and disdain apparent in the mocking twist of his sensuous mouth.
Tension made Glee snap when she might have simply walked away. "How dare you address me in such a tone! Who are you?" Their gazes locked as each attempted to stare down the other.
Horse's hooves thudded on the dusty street as Jake Fletcher came to investigate the delay. "I see ya met my pris'ner."
Glee's focus did not leave those tawny eyes. "Explain."
F
letcher cleared his throat and spat before he answered. "That there's Esteban Garcia. Thief, murderer, and soon to be dead-man. He's wanted in Salt Lake City. Convenient, ain't it? Right on our way to California."
The dark-haired man's eyes went cold and Glee's gaze leapt back to his manacles and followed their chain down through the prisoner's legs and under the wagon where, presumably, they were secured to a rear axle.
"You didn't tell me you were transporting a criminal, Mister Fletcher."
"I tol' you I'm a bounty hunter. This here's my bounty."
Glee's lips tightened and she frowned at the odious little man. "I don't like it. Is he dangerous?"
"Naw." Fletcher patted the rifle in its saddle holster. "You don't need to be feared. C'mon now, honey-"
"Miss Montrose," she said, her voice like ice.
The bounty hunter shifted in his saddle, his mouth hardening. "We're wastin' daylight, Miss Montrose." He waited for her to follow him, but she was staring at the prisoner intently. "Aw, shit. Are we leavin' 'r not?"
Glee's frigid glare fell upon Fletcher again. "Right now I'm considering your omission, Mister Fletcher. This," she gestured toward the manacled man on the wagon, "does not sit well with me."
"Haven't I done ever' thin' ya asked me to? Hell, I even took a go'damn bath like ya tol' me!" She didn't respond. Her cold, blue gaze made him squirm and she was glad the weak sun of the early hour made her dark spectacles undesirable; her angry look was much more potent. Fletcher waved his hand in disgust and turned his horse toward the front of the wagon. "Women! I'll be waitin' when yer done with yer snit, Miss Montrose."
She turned back toward Esteban Garcia while considering this new development. Her annoyance become something like surprise as she encountered the amusement crinkling the prisoner's tawny eyes at the corners. "Are you laughing at me?"
Amusement was quickly replaced with rigid blankness. "Better throw me that bundle, querida." He held his arms out and she hesitated. "Unless you wish to brave the horses." He shrugged. "It is no loss to me when they kick you for being estupida."
Glee bristled. "For your information, Señor, I spent a year in Spain when I was a child. I may not be fluent in that particular language, but I know enough to realize when I'm being insulted."
He grinned, a flash of perfect, white teeth in the blackness of his short beard. "Ah, not so estupida." His tawny eyes regarded her thoroughly, reminding her of the sensual regard of the Sultan of Constantinople. It made her feel entirely too naked and vulnerable. She reached up to make sure every lock of red-gold hair was tucked beneath her silk scarf.
He went on, his eyes narrowing. "Desperate then. Or can you be so naïve that you do not realize what a pig Jake Fletcher is?" His tawny eyes flashed a challenge while his voice held contempt. "Si, naïve. A baby, despite your years. Salga, niña. Go away, little girl. I have no patience with babies who look like women."
Glee's jaw tensed and her hands tightened on her bundle. Her fingers itched to slap the smug expression from his face. Unfortunately, she'd have to get past the horses to do so, and even if she had the courage to brave them, she wasn't entirely sure she had the courage to face Esteban Garcia at close range. Something about him hinted at barely controlled fury, at crudely harnessed power. Like the Sultan's caged tigers, unleashed only to prowl the palace grounds at night and devour intruders. Esteban Garcia would devour her given half a chance. A flame of hot fear leapt through her belly, then subsided to a red-embered simmer.
Jake Fletcher was wrong. Esteban Garcia looked dangerous, despite his manacles. Lord! He was dangerous; a murderer, a thief. Hadn't Fletcher said so? A man like that didn't deserve her attention, not even enough for her to call him the beast he was.
Nevertheless, something drove her to have the last word. "The opinion of a criminal means nothing to me, Señor Garcia. Nada," she repeated for emphasis. "Save your words for someone who's willing to listen." She hurled the bundle at him, not pausing to see if he caught it, and headed for the front of the wagon.
Chapter 7
"T hat there's the Little Blue River," Fletcher said, pointing toward a line of brush and trees that wound its way over the flat plain.
Glee's brow furrowed. "Again?" She adjusted her hat to further shade her bespectacled eyes, and looked in all directions. "Are you sure you know where we are, Mister Fletcher?"
"Yep. We'll get a little closer then make camp fer the night." He spurred his white-stockinged bay forward and headed toward the river to scout out an appropriate camp site.
As soon as he was out of ear-shot, Glee turned around and opened the canvas flap of the wagon. "Fletcher's gone for a few minutes. Give him some water, Amina."
Amina had already snatched up a water flask and at Glee's signal she began climbing over boxes and bundles, over Erdogan's knees, until she got to the back. The rear flap was open, and Amina stuck her head out, reaching as far as she could to hand the flask to the dark-haired man who trudged doggedly along behind the wagon.
"Gracias," he said, his voice hoarse.
They'd been traveling for twelve days, pacing the oxen at about nineteen miles per day until the beasts were well and truly trail broke. Their speed would be picking up once they reached Fort Kearny, and then the prisoner would be hard-pressed to keep up. Fletcher had made it clear that he would enjoy seeing Esteban Garcia dragged in the dirt for a few miles each day.
If it hadn't been for the secret kindnesses shown to him by Señorita Montrose, he knew he might not have made it this far. Not with any pride left, anyway. When she saw that Fletcher left him chained to the wagon without a blanket each night, a blanket managed to fall out of the vehicle after Fletcher bedded down.
Leftovers were all he ate, and those in the meanest portions, so the woman arranged to have more food prepared and claimed that her eyes were bigger than her stomach. A little more was leftover.
After the third day he'd been forced to walk behind the wagon, the gunshot wound Fletcher had given him in his thigh before the journey ached so much that he collapsed in place when the oxen stopped. Again they waited until Fletcher bedded down, and then she whispered something to her men. The odd pair came to him, coaxing him out of his pants to examine his pink, puckered scar. One of them produced a bottle of bay and menthol scented oil and worked it into his muscles. Relief washed over him like a wave of nostalgia—comforting and poignant all at the same time.
After so many hours trudging along behind the wagon and horses, he smelled like a gutter and knew he looked as brown and dirty as the mud they rolled through. His smell and the scent of the horse apples he walked through blended together. Small measures of natural comfort helped to keep him going. The sun peaking through clouds, warm and familiar—the same sun that shone on his home—and the scent of crushed chamomile as the wagon rolled over the sod. These things gave him brief moments of tranquility.
After his collapse and subsequent treatment, he hadn't been forced to walk. She claimed that his harsh breathing was spooking the horses they led. It was a bald-faced lie and they all knew it. Fletcher twitched, but ordered his prisoner to sit on the wagon tail through the morning. Not until after the noon meal was he forced to begin his dusty trek with the other trailing animals.
Something about Señorita Montrose kept Fletcher in his place. She had some fire of integrity, or force of spirit, that even the crude bounty hunter recognized and respected. It was a curious thing. A thing worth investigating—if things had been different.
The empty water flask was returned to Amina, just before they rolled into the shade of the broad cottonwoods that lined the river. Sparse grass grew in the alkaline soil, and Hakki was quick to unhitch the oxen and lead them toward better fodder. Erdogan went right to work setting up his mistress' army tent. The prisoner's tawny eyes crinkled with amusement as he sank to the soft earth and leaned back on a wagon wheel. The woman's servants were an odd bunch. Two Turks and an African woman, he'd learned through a tortured conversation with the chubby Erdogan. The
y'd been interrupted before he could discover how they had come to serve the woman, or where she was from and what they were trying to get to in California.
He watched her walk around the wagon and reach in to extract a valise. Despite the dirt, the sweat, the acrid stench of the animals and himself, he caught the gentle fragrance of roses as she swept past him. A breeze molded her loose calico dress to her body and he wondered at her reasons for keeping such a pleasant form so well hidden. He considered her with narrowed eyes. There was much more to Señorita Montrose than met the eye.
"I'm going down to the river to bathe. Amina come with me." Her head turned toward Erdogan. "You could use a wash, too, Erdogan."
"Yes, mistress," the man replied as he went back toward the wagon for her bedroll and Amina's.
Hakki stopped her before she got more than a few paces away. The prisoner couldn't hear their conversation, but he didn't miss the fact that they glanced at him more than once as they talked. Soon, Hakki nodded and came back toward the camp. He unloaded foodstuffs and other items from the wagon and set out wood for a fire.
Under Wraps Page 7
