The Fortune

by Beth Williamson

  Frankie swallowed the dry spit in her mouth, freeing her voice. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m getting the mud offa me and my shirt. The cold water should help the swelling in my hand too.” He held up the shirt and sniffed, rearing back. “Damn. You ought to do the same if you smell like this too. Stinks like a horse took a shit on me.”

  She hadn’t forgotten about the horses and the mud she’d landed in. She held her muddy dress up and sniffed, gagged and dropped it to the ground.

  “Sacre bleu, it smells horrible.”

  “I’m guessing your hair does too.” John waded out further into the stream and sat down, submerging himself up to his armpits.

  Frankie let loose an unladylike snort and reached for her hair. That was where the other smell had been coming from. Mud caked the back of her head while the chunk still hung encrusted with mud. She dropped to her knees and managed to pull the pins from her hair, while avoiding the mud that cascaded down in thick plops around her.

  Washing her hair while keeping the rest of her dry was going to be a challenge. If only she were a man and could strip down and wade into the river, not caring if her trousers got wet.

  “If you get closer to the water, I can help.”

  She lifted her head to find a very wet, and still half-naked, John Malloy in front of her. He must have been on his knees to be eye level with her. Water ran in rivulets down his chest, meandering through the hair, straight down to his trousers. That was a place she had no interest in exploring.

  “How will you assist me?”

  “I can rinse the shit out of your hair, unless you want to join me in the creek.” He raised one brow, a challenge in his gaze.

  Frankie thought about jumping in the creek with him and taking him up on his challenge. To free herself from the societal rules that governed her and throw caution to the wind. For once escape what was expected, what she had to do, and do what she wanted. John Malloy was dangerous, more than she initially thought.

  “Much as I think you would like that, I cannot join you in the creek. What you see before you is my wardrobe. I can only hope this dress comes clean so that I may wear both of them again.” She had to be practical. Throwing away her reputation on the wagon train, and possibly her future, to frolic in a creek with a big stranger would be beyond foolish.

  “What about your hair? Do you want help or not?”

  Frankie stared into his blue eyes and thought of all the reasons she should say no, of the fact she could ask one of her sisters to help, and of the chastisement she would receive from her mother. A tiny voice inside her whispered of dark secrets and decisions she could not undo.

  In the end, Frankie chose the practical path.

  “Oui, I need your assistance, si vous plais.”

  Chapter Two

  John could hardly believe his ears. Frankie, the spunky little thing, wanted him to help her wash her hair. He didn’t know whether to laugh or kiss her, because sure as hell he’d wanted to kiss her since she landed in the mud under him. Those flashing green eyes, that heart-shaped face, the soft, pillowy breasts that made his hands itch. She was sin incarnate, even covered in mud.

  Now here she sat on the bank of the frigid creek, her hair undone. Although muddy, she had gorgeous hair, thick and wavy with the colors of sunset sparkling in the early morning sun. He’d be a fool to touch her.

  John was obviously a complete fool.

  “Then come closer and lean forward.”

  She did as she was bade, coming close enough he could see the small hairs at the nape of her neck, tiny wisps that moved slightly in the breeze. He wanted to kiss them, breathe in the scent of Frankie, then kiss his way across the pink shell of her ear, her jaw, until he reached the full, ruby lips. Damn. He needed to adjust his dick as it grew several inches from looking at her shit-covered hair. He wasn’t one to get caught up in a woman’s looks, but something about this little French woman set his blood to boil.

  John scooped up water with his hands, running it through her hair, working out the clumps of mud. Her hair was at least three feet long, rich and thick. He could well imagine what it would feel like clean and spread across the sheets.

  Damn, but he’d been too long without a woman. He did not need to get involved with any of the folks from the wagon train, especially virginal young ladies.

  “My neck is beginning to cramp.” She knew how to complain, that was for sure.

  “I got the clumps out. Let me give it a good scrub.”

  Her head felt so tiny in his hands, in contrast to the heavy hair she carried. He scrubbed at her scalp until her hair fairly squeaked. Then he kept at it a few minutes more, feeling perverse at keeping her on her knees in front of him. A lesser man would make a crude remark, but he kept his tongue. For a reason he couldn’t name, he liked her.

  “I would like to stand now, monsieur.”

  He chuckled and squeezed as much water from her hair as he could. “There you go, Frankie. Now toss me your dress and I’ll see what I can do.”

  She swung her hair to the right, which made a slap as it hit her back. Without the cloud of hair, Frankie looked damn young, vulnerable. Then she opened her mouth and the illusion was broken.

  “I do not believe I am the first woman to hear you say that.” She raised both brows. “Do you have experience as a laundress?”

  “I’ve had to wash my own duds for years. I’m sure I can manage to get your frock clean.” He held out his hand, enjoying the play of emotions across her face.

  “It is sturdy, but not canvas like your trousers. Please do not rip it.” She handed him the yellow dress with obvious reluctance.

  The fact she’d entrusted him with what was apparently her only other dress was unexpected. He did his best to get the mud off, using the sand at the bottom of the creek to scour it away. Without soap, it wasn’t going to be shiny clean, but at least it was cleaner.

  “Your sisters don’t have an accent like you.” He was curious about her, although he shouldn’t be.

  “I was ten when we moved from France. The two youngest lost most of their accent, and Josephine is a governess and tutor. She trained herself to lose any trace of France.” She squeezed out her hair. “Wealthy people prefer a French maid or dresser, not a French tutor.”

  John hadn’t had much contact with rich people, but her words had a ring of truth to them. There was a rich man on the wagon train and he was a jackass.

  “What brings you west?”

  She stopped and stared at him, her chin rising into a stubborn tilt. “Why do most settlers?”

  He shrugged. If she didn’t want to talk about it, he wasn’t going to push. It wasn’t his business and truthfully, he’d heard too many stories in the last three years. He wouldn’t miss another one.

  When he rose to wring out the dress, she gasped. His gaze flew to hers, noting she had been finger combing her hair and watching him. He wanted to puff out his chest and grin, but her expression stopped him.

  “Do not wring out my dress, monsieur. Bring it here and I will extract the water, si vous plais.”

  He frowned. “You sure are bossy.”

  “My sisters would likely agree with you.” She got to her feet and held out her hands. He noted her wet hair had turned the top of her blue dress almost see-through.

  John should have told her, but damn, he enjoyed the view too much. The devil inside him wanted to know the color of the nipples currently poking at her dress. They weren’t too dark, perhaps pink.

  “Monsieur Malloy, the dress?” She tapped her foot and swung her hair back.

  He couldn’t stop himself, his gaze dropped again to her chest. She followed his stare and gasped, her arms slamming over those tits in a flash.

  “I cannot believe you did not tell me.”

  “I can’t believe you expected me to.” He grinned, completely unrepentant and enjoying his time with Frankie Chastain immensely.

  “You, monsieur, are no gentleman.”

  “I ne
ver said I was.” He tossed the dress, enjoying the wet slap as it landed in her arms. Damn but he felt like laughing.

  Frankie spun on her heel and walked away. Too late John realized he still hadn’t had his hand doctored, so he needed to return to the Chastain wagon. A tiny bubble of excitement tickled his belly. Frankie had definitely put a twist in his tail in the short time he’d known her.

  The stinging in his hand pulled John out of his thoughts. He was walking across the tall grass, barefoot and shirtless, mumbling to himself. Charlotte Chastain stood at the corner of the wagon, staring at him with a curious expression on her face. He wondered if Frankie had passed, soaking wet and full of fire, by her youngest sister.

  He stopped and pulled on his shirt, buttoning it quickly, then yanked on his boots and plopped his hat on his head. With a nod to the youngest sister who liked to curse, he went around the front of the wagon to find Frankie sitting in front of the fire with a blanket on her shoulders. Beside her sat an older version of her, her green gaze intent and sharp.

  “Monsieur, are you to blame for my daughter’s condition?” She glanced at Frankie. “Est-ce qu'il est l'homme?”

  “Monsieur Malloy saved me from a wagon, Maman. Le petit protector went off accidently and shot him in the hand. We were both muddy and after I washed up, Mr. Malloy used the creek.” Frankie’s gaze dared him to contradict her.

  “Hmmm, I think there is more to this story.” Mrs. Chastain glanced at her daughter. “But first I shall see to your wounds. Monsieur, please sit. I shall fetch my medical kit.”

  John sat down on an upended crate across the fire from Frankie. She watched him, her eyes looking wide and owl-like from the blanket that surrounded her. Her wet dress hung on bushes nearby to dry. Gone was the bossy sprite and in her place, a docile little girl. At least that was the illusion in front of him. Perhaps her mother didn’t know the real woman who lived behind the mask that he saw now. Or he was acting stupid for loss of blood.

  “Here we are, monsieur.” Mrs. Chastain knelt in front of him and unwrapped the wet rag from around his hand. She examined the wound closely, peering at his skin with a magnifying glass until he felt like a bug. “The bullet is beneath the layers of tissue. It’s not too deep, but I must extract it.”

  “Take it out, then. I don’t want it left inside where it can fester.” John was uncomfortable knowing he had the damn bullet stuck inside him, like a macabre souvenir of meeting Frankie.

  “It will be painful.” Mrs. Chastain looked up at him. “Your skin is quite cold from the water you were in, but I do not have anesthetic except for a poultice made from plants. It will take ten minutes to be effective.”

  She sure as hell talked like a doctor. Her medical bag was a tapestry traveling case with things in it he’d never seen before. There were shiny instruments, clamps, rolled bandages and something with a gauge. This woman exuded confidence and strength. Frankie had inherited some of that from her mother for sure. John had been wounded in his life, what real man hadn’t, but this was the first time he’d been shot. He wouldn’t be telling the tale, though, embarrassing as hell to be shot by a tiny gun no bigger than a turd while trying to save a lady’s life. Oh no, that story would not pass his lips. Ever.

  “Nah, no poultice, just take the thing out.”

  Mrs. Chastain glanced over at her daughter. “Francesca, I need you to hand me instruments. Josephine, bring me a basin of hot water, please.”

  Frankie jumped to her feet and knelt beside her mother. She had obviously been in this position before, calm and prepared to assist. Miss Chastain had many sides—this was the third he’d seen since they’d met less than an hour before. He wondered which was the real Frankie. The sister with the glasses used a dipper to fill a basin with hot water from the bucket on the fire. She didn’t say a word while she worked. After she set the basin down beside her mother, she disappeared behind the wagon.

  Mrs. Chastain moved until she was nearly in his lap. She put a cloth on his knee, then flattened his hand on top of it. “Hold your hand as steady as you can, monsieur. If you move, I will have to strap it down or have Francesca hold it down.”

  It amused him to think of Frankie holding his hand down on his thigh, but he didn’t let the smile show. “I’ll keep it steady, ma’am.”

  “Merci.” Mrs. Chastain went to work, murmuring softly to Frankie, who handed her shiny tools almost as though she knew what her mother would ask for. They had identical expressions of concentration with furrowed brows. She definitely favored her mother, what with the wispy hair escaping from its confines.

  When Mrs. Chastain dug into his skin with a tiny little tool with pincers, pain ripped through him. He sucked in a breath through his teeth. Frankie glanced up at him with sympathy in her eyes. Her hair was still matted and wet, plastered against her skull. He wondered what it would be like to wake up with that face beside him.

  Another jolt of pain yanked him from his stupid meanderings. Frankie Chastain was a virginal daughter of a settler. He had no goddamn business wondering a thing about her or how she would feel in his arms. Not one thought should cross his mind.

  “I have it. Be very still.” Mrs. Chastain slowly extracted the small tool. At the end of the bloody tool was a tiny metal lump.

  “What’s that?” He peered at it, wondering how the hell it got in his hand.

  “That is the bullet.” She turned it this way and that. “It only went in an inch. It is still intact, for which you are lucky. Fragments would have been a bit more painful to remove.” She dipped the tool into a basin of steaming water beside her.

  “I’d like to keep hold of that, if you don’t mind, as a souvenir.” John held out his other hand and she dropped the bullet into it.

  “Of course. Le petit protector is meant to scare, not to harm. My apologies for the pain you have endured.” Mrs. Chastain’s accented English was flawless, as was her medical demeanor. It must be tough to be the daughter of such a woman. High standards to live up to, something he knew all too well.

  He looked at the tiny bullet in his hand and then up at the woman who had put it in him. A smile played around her eyes, but she didn’t let it show. Little brat.

  Mrs. Chastain poured clear liquid over his hand and it stung like a bitch. He clamped his lips together to keep the shout inside him. After a few moments, she used another cloth to wipe away the rest of the blood.

  “I believe clean instruments and clean wounds are the foundation for better healing. I would suggest you clean this three times a day, Monsieur Malloy.” She murmured to Frankie, who handed her a length of clean linen. Mrs. Chastain wrapped his hand and tied it gently. She patted his hand and got to her feet. “There, it is done. Not too bad, no?”

  “No, it wasn’t bad. It was mighty kind of you to doctor me, Mrs. Chastain.” He rose and tucked the bullet into his pocket. “I’ll be sure to come back if I get hurt during the journey.”

  “Ah, you are part of the wagon train?” Mrs. Chastain glanced at Frankie, who was just getting to her feet. “You did not tell me he was a settler.”

  “I ain’t a settler. I work for Buck Avery, ma’am. I’m working this wagon train.” He enjoyed the shock, then annoyance that flashed across Frankie’s face. She would be entertaining, that was for certain. He looked forward to sparring with her again.

  “Bon! I will be happy to help you if you need medical assistance.” Mrs. Chastain folded her hands in front of her. “Good day to you, Monsieur Malloy.”

  A polite dismissal. John touched the brim of his hat. “Good day, Mrs. Chastain.” He raised one brow at Frankie. “And to you, Miss Chastain.”

  He left their wagon, a smile on his face and a stinging in his hand, but damn, what an interesting morning he’d already had. His clothes would dry and his hand would heal. The four months ahead didn’t seem to be all that bad, not if he could run into Frankie Chastain now and again. Whether or not she wanted to see him, well, he wouldn’t think about that. John pushed aside the thought and went
in search of vittles. It was past breakfast time and he’d worked up quite an appetite sparring with the little filly.

  Oh yes, the trip to Oregon would not be boring.

  Three days until things changed again for the Chastain family, until the next half of their journey began. As Frankie washed the supper dishes, her mind wandered back to the beginning of their journey. To New York.

  She pushed aside the dark thoughts, choosing to think about all they would have in Oregon, the opportunities for her father Gaston, a skilled carpenter and wood craftsman. The territory was full of hope, full of promise, full of opportunities for her father and her family. Frankie wanted the peace of the new land, the quiet away from the cities of the east, the dirt, the smell, the crush of humanity, the dregs of society.

  The sunset cast its orange glow around her at the creek. This was a tiny bit of peace, a snippet of what she hoped to find at the end of the long journey ahead. Her sisters walked toward the creek and settled on the grass around her. In the evenings, they would always talk about the day and what was ahead tomorrow. Frankie shook her head to clear away the shadows and cobwebs.

  Josephine had a tin plate in her hand. “You forgot one.”

  “Merci.” She took the dish from her sister and scrubbed it in the bucket of sudsy water.

  Josephine stared at her with that special intensity she had. “Mr. Malloy upset you.”

  Frankie shrugged. “Much as I loathe to admit it, he did. I will be fine if I avoid him.”

  “I thought you said he was working for Mr. Avery. It might be hard to avoid him for four months.”

  Frankie made a face. “Merde, I forgot about that.”

  “He is very handsome.” Isabelle smiled. “His eyes are as blue as the sky.”

  “He sure bleeds a hell of a lot.” Charlotte lay back on the grass, her arms behind her head. “But I didn’t think he was handsome.”

  “I am certain we can find a way to make sure he does not bother you.” Josephine touched her shoulder. “Papa can talk to Mr. Avery and—”