Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1)

by T. K. Lukas

  “Drowning’s only one concern. There’re many reasons why a woman shouldn’t be out here bathing alone. It’s unsafe.” The smooth, deep voice moved closer into the cave.

  “Perhaps it’s more unsafe with you here. I felt quite safe before.” Barleigh wondered how long he’d been watching. He’d clearly seen enough to call her ma’am and to know that she was a woman bathing alone.

  “You’re safer than you were before. But, to show you that I mean no harm, I’ll turn my back and guard the entrance to make sure no one is watching while you towel off and get dressed. See? I’m turning around.” He turned his back to the pool.

  “You’re either brave, or imprudent, turning your back on an armed woman whom you’ve never met.” In principle, true, if this was Mr. Lévesque. He’d met Bar. Not Barleigh.

  “Lady, if you are armed, I’d like to see where you’re hiding your weapon.”

  “Well, sir, a knife I keep strapped to my thigh at all times, just in case.” She decided she should buy one of those, first chance she got.

  She slipped out of the pool and tiptoed backward toward her guns, lifting the towel and rushing it over her body. Keeping one pistol in hand, she fumbled with her clothes with the other. Impossible to dress quickly using only one hand, she lay the pistol down at her feet.

  “My pistol was in my towel—now it’s in my hand,” she said, knowing he couldn’t see in the dark and with his back turned. “My shotgun is at my side. Please keep your back turned while I finish dressing.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And could you please step to your left into that beam of light so I can see you better? No surprises. Keep your back turned.”

  “As you wish.” He sidestepped until he was centered under the small ray of light, his hands in a casual clasp behind his back as he whistled a soft tune. “Is this where you want me?”

  “Yes. That will do.” She hurried with the binding, wrapping the swaddling tight around her breasts, then pulled on the long johns, pants, shirt, and boots. She pondered how she was going to explain a sudden transformation from female to male. A miracle? Something in the mineral water, like Mario said, that shrivels a man’s pecker?

  “I’ll stand here as long as you say. It’s my personal philosophy to never argue with a woman who has a gun pointed at my back. Or with one who has a knife strapped to her thigh. Of course I’m just taking your word for it that you are indeed armed, as I didn’t witness said weapons. By the way, I’m Hughes Lévesque, Texas Ranger. And you are?”

  “Dressed. You may turn around now.”

  When he turned, the beam of sunlight under which he stood illuminated his face, sparkling off of the flecks of burnished gold in his deep amber eyes, and in that instant, Barleigh knew him.

  My dream wolf.

  She sank back into the shadows, transfixed, watching as he blinked hard against the beam of light from the sun. He tilted back his black hat, and then cocked his head, listening. Scanning his eyes across the cave to the right, he settled upon the exact spot where Barleigh crouched in the shadows against the warm, wet wall.

  His long buffalo coat was open, revealing polished Navy Colt revolvers at each hip. A burgundy and gold brocade vest and a crisp linen shirt more suitable for a dinner party in Saint Joseph than scouting out caves in Salt Lake City looked out of place.

  “I’m standing in the light, but you’re hidden in the shadows. I prefer conversations face to face.” He waited for a reply. “It’s all right, miss. I won’t bite.”

  Barleigh watched and listened in silence. She remembered that there was something about his eyes that disarmed her when they’d met in Saint Joseph. That she didn’t realize then that those eyes belonged to the wolf from her dreams surprised her. The intensity was unnerving.

  “Would you feel better if I waited for you outside?” He began to back toward the entrance, gloved hands open, outstretched, his shiny spurs clinking against the wet stone floor.

  “Yes. No. I . . . I don’t know,” she stammered, feeling foolish. “I’m . . . I’m embarrassed that you saw me naked.”

  “The cave is dark. More dark than light. I had only the faintest idea that I was seeing anything more than a shadowy, shady silhouette.” He moved his hands, making an hourglass shape.

  “You saw enough to know that I’m a woman bathing alone,” she said, embarrassment flushing her cheeks.

  “It’s a trick I learned from an old Indian scout. Follow the heavy scent of lilac and lavender, and there’s a good chance you’ll find a woman at the end of your nose.” His gaze remained on where Barleigh still crouched against the wall in the shadows.

  “Oh? Oh, the shampoo and soap. I, uh, I was just enjoying . . . I haven’t smelled like a woman in . . .”

  “Now, would you please come out of the shadows?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m afraid.”

  “Afraid of what? By now you must know that I mean you no harm.”

  “Yes, I know that. It’s just that, well, you see, I, uh, I’ve a secret, a significant secret, and once you know it, you must agree to keep it, too. Otherwise, I’ll have no choice but to take your weapons, bind your hands, blindfold you, and leave you in this cave until I’m a safe distance away.”

  “Do you have a gun drawn on me now?” Hughes asked, a smile wrinkling the corners of his mouth.

  “Yes. Two.”

  “I heard quiet shuffling and I know that you just now picked your guns up off the floor. The scrape of metal against stone gave you away. And you need to see a cobbler about resoling your boots—the leather has somewhat worn thin. You tapped your toe against the wall, I’m guessing searching for your other gun. Although I can’t see you, I can hear you. As both of us know, I can smell you. I can sense you. You were crouching. Now you’re standing. If I had wanted to, I could have disarmed you. Or worse. But I didn’t. You can trust me. You know that you can.” His voice remained smooth, steady, deep, and calm.

  Barleigh sighed a reluctant sigh, not convinced yet that she should give in. “Swear an oath on your Texas Ranger’s badge and give me your gentleman’s word that my secret is safe with you.”

  “I’m the best keeper of secrets you’ll ever need,” he said.

  “Swear on it,” Barleigh insisted.

  “I don’t know which I value more, my gentleman’s word or an oath sworn on my badge, but I give you both. Whatever dark secret you reveal will go no further than the mouth of this cave.” He couldn’t tell her that he already knew her secret. He’d given his word to Leighselle that he’d follow her daughter to Utah Territory and keep an eye on her safety. A man of his word, he always kept his promises.

  “I’m a boy. I’m Bar Flanders. We met in Saint Joseph a few weeks back.” She walked from the shadows and over to the beam of light where Hughes stood and stuck out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Lévesque.” She didn’t bother lowering her voice an octave.

  Hughes removed his glove and took her hand. “I’ll be damned. The Pony Express rider. But you’re not a boy. Just pretending to be.”

  “Yes, just pretending.”

  Barleigh felt the weight of his intense amber eyes on hers, and she could not turn away from his gaze. Like in one of her dreams, when she was on the cloud circling around the mountain peak and spiraling back down to earth, and the wolf would silently command her to look at him and to not turn away, it was the same with this man.

  She expected him to throw back his head and offer his howl to the moon and for the moon to accept his offering. But he wasn’t a dark sable wolf and the moon wasn’t out. Barleigh wasn’t hearing howling, she was hearing ringing in her ears—thin, metallic ringing—and the dark cave was spinning. She felt dizzy. She couldn’t blink away the fuzziness clouding her vision. She swayed as her knees grew weak.

  “Are you all right, Bar? Here, sit down.” Hughes took her by both arms, steadying her.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong.
I feel lightheaded and faint, all of a sudden,” she said, her voice a thin whisper.

  “How long did you stay in the hot bath?” Hughes spread his thick buffalo coat on the ground and she sat down on it.

  “A good while. An hour at least. And then some more when someone scared me and I had to jump back in.”

  “Right. Sorry about that. Have you had anything to eat? Any water to drink?”

  “Some watered brandy, and some apricots and walnuts.”

  “Brandy and a long hot bath with not much to eat? Good God, woman, it’s no wonder you’re dizzy. I’ll be back in a minute.” And then he was gone.

  Barleigh lay back and fought the urge to close her eyes and drift away to sleep. She rolled over on her side, drawing her knees up into a tight ball, and then pulled the arm of Hughes’s coat around her shoulders. His scent was strong on his garment, smoky and woodsy, with the smell of leather, horsehide, and saddle soap mingled together with something else. She breathed in again, smelling something tempting, something spicy, like cloves, cinnamon, or cardamom. The shorn lamb’s wool lining was soft against her face as she pressed into it and breathed, trying to identify the aroma.

  Mmm. What is it?

  “What is what?” Hughes walked back into the cave with a large, tooled leather duffle bag and knelt on the ground beside her. “You were asking ‘What is it?’ when I walked back in.”

  “Oh. Private thoughts.” She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud. A red-hot blush climbed up her neck and blossomed on her face. She was thankful for the darkness.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude into your private thoughts.” Hughes opened the bag and reached inside. He offered his canteen, then moistened his bandana and laid it across her brow.

  “Thank you. I hope I didn’t sound rude.” She sipped from his canteen and took the cloth from his hand, washing her face with the cool water.

  “You didn’t. You sounded matter-of-fact. And private. Now, you should eat. I have in my bag some honey bread and smoked ham. More water—don’t set that canteen down. Drink up.”

  “Do you always sound like that?” Barleigh asked, drinking more water.

  “Like what?” Hughes reached back into the duffle bag and took out two plates, arranging the food, napkins, and silverware as if they were dining in a fine restaurant.

  “Matter-of-fact and dictatorial.” She picked up the silver fork with gold filigree trim and twirled it between her fingers, then placed it back down on the embroidered linen napkin that lay tucked next to the small pewter plate with a stamped coat of arms at its center.

  Hughes paused and looked at her, seeming to study her face in the beam of sunlight. “You’ve cat-like eyes, but blue. Very blue. And very feminine. No wonder you kept them cast down. It’s part of your disguise, your act,” he said. “It’s no wonder. Your eyes might betray you.”

  Like Hughes’s eyes might betray him—another private thought she would keep to herself.

  “So you consider me dictatorial? I prefer ‘commanding,’ or ‘take charge.’”

  “I can take charge of myself,” she said, her voice taking on a defensive tone.

  “I can see that. You’re a brave young lady,” he said, sitting back and folding his arms around his bent knees. “May I ask you, though, why you’re doing something that’s impossible to sustain long term, this masquerade of yours, and is reckless, dangerous, and foolhardy?”

  “Reckless, dangerous, and foolhardy?” Barleigh bristled. “You wouldn’t use those words to describe a man in this role. You’d call him daring, valiant, and heroic.”

  “But you’re not a man.”

  “And it hasn’t mattered.”

  “You put yourself in harm’s way every time you race off with that goddamned mochila. Pardon my language. Don’t you realize the risk you take? Men have died doing what you’re doing.” Hughes’s voice deepened, his eyes darkened. “Take those words seriously.”

  “Mr. Lévesque, you don’t know me or know anything about my life. You’ve no right to question me about the risks I take or what I realize or don’t realize.” She pushed the plate away and stood up, arms folded across her chest, pacing, irritated, and incredulous.

  “What’s your name?” Hughes stood up, placing a hand on her arm. He knew her name was Barleigh Alexandria Henrietta Flanders—he knew more about her than she knew herself—but he had to get her to tell him. “Stop pacing like a damned caged cat. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to rile you. What’s your name?”

  “Excuse me?” She stood with her arms still a barrier across her chest.

  “Your name. Is Bar Flanders your real or your pretend name?”

  “Barleigh. Barleigh Flanders. I shortened it to Bar.”

  “Miss Barleigh Flanders, you became a Pony Express rider by your daring horsemanship and bravery. I didn’t mean to sound dismissive of your skills or capabilities. You’ve proven yourself equal to the task. But, if you were my girl, if you were my little sister, I would never allow—I would do everything in my power to dissuade you from such dangerous activities.”

  With hands fisted on hips, she tilted her chin to look Hughes square in the eye. “I’ve done my job just as well as any Pony Express rider. I haven’t shirked my duties once. I’m accepted. No one questions that I’m not a boy. I’m not a childish girl playing dress-up and make-believe for the thrill of a silly little game. I need this job.”

  A surprising urge to cry came from deep within. She took shaky breaths, trying to swallow it away. All of the reasons why she was here, and all of the reasons why she shouldn’t be here, conflicted, grating against her emotions.

  “Hey now, come here. It’s all right. I swore to you that your secret is safe with me. I’m the best keeper of secrets—”

  “—I’ll ever need. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying. I hate crying when there’s no reason.”

  “It’s not what I’d call a full-blown cry. Just one tiny little leak right here.” He wiped her cheek with his thumb. “There, the leak is fixed.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lévesque.”

  “Hughes.”

  “Hughes. Thank you. Please call me Barleigh, but only here, only today.”

  “Barleigh. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there is one tiny little thing that might give your secret away, that you’re not a boy.”

  “What’s that?” she sniffed, wiping at her eyes.

  “If you ride back into town smelling like a perfumery, someone’s bound to raise an eyebrow.” He looked at her, one eyebrow raised in comical fashion. “Lilac and lavender are not the scents of Pony Express riders. Take your shirt off. I’ll be right back.”

  “I beg your pardon?” She stiffened and looked at him wide-eyed.

  “Just your shirt.” He waved his hand around, up and down in front of her, chest level. “Leave all of your under-bindings on.”

  “So you didn’t see anything but a shady, shadowy silhouette ’cause it’s more dark than light in here.” Barleigh felt the beginnings of a blush again but began unfastening her shirt. “Where are you going?”

  But he was already gone.

  Hughes returned with a handful of pine cones and a few small branches, then built a fire on the floor of the cave below the crevasse. He boiled water, making a strong smelling tea with the tarry pine needles, adding thin flakes carved from the bar of oily saddle soap he had fished from his traveling bag.

  “Come here,” he said, “and let me smell you.”

  She laughed out loud.

  “I’m serious,” he said, looking at her, waiting. “Is the smell in your hair, or on your skin, or both? Can we fix it with just a shampoo, or will you need a complete scrubbing down?”

  Hesitating a moment, she walked over to the fire and stood under the beam of sunlight. “Ready for inspection, sir.” She held out her arms and held her breath.

  Hughes moved around and stood behind her, inches from her body. He leaned in close, grazed his nose along the curve of her neck, inhali
ng, and then along the other side, breathing in and out. The silky fine hairs at the base of her neck fluttered from the warm puffs of his breath against her skin.

  She swayed. Oh. My. Steady on your feet.

  With his large hands, he scrunched them in her hair, burying his face, breathing in. He ran his nose along the outside of each arm to the tips of her fingers, turned over the palm to trace back up the inside of her elbow, up and over each shoulder, then followed down, down along the centerline dip and curve of her back, stopping short where her unbelted trousers hung loose on her hips.

  He placed his hands on Barleigh’s waist, turning her around to face him. “My dear,” he said, his voice deep and husky, “the verdict is in.”

  “Yes?” Breathe.

  “I detect only a faint trace of floral scent on your skin. But, your hair is something else. Your hair smells—marvelous. That problem needs fixing.” He turned and walked to the pool.

  “All right. What do you need me to do?” She tingled where merely his breath brushed her skin.

  “Lay down here on your back with your head over the pool, yes, like that. I’ll wash your hair with this pine tea and saddle soap. It won’t smell as pretty as lilac and lavender, but smelling pretty isn’t what Bar needs.”

  Hughes rolled up his sleeves, kneeling beside the pool, cupping her head in one hand, running the warm mixture through her hair with the other, massaging it into her scalp and pulling it through the short length of her hair.

  By holding the weight of her head in his hands and washing her hair, that one act, bonded his word and his oath. Relaxation melted through Barleigh. She closed her eyes. She imagined him holding also in his hands the secrets and dreams and thoughts and desires swimming around in her head. And the fears. His hands would not let them go but would keep them safe, protected, buoyant, free to float where destiny’s winds blew them.

  What is it about Hughes Lévesque, she wondered, that made her feel as if she’d known him all her life—and longer?

  His bare arm, wet and soapy, slid against her cheek, against her forehead, and she felt a warm stirring in the pit of her stomach that slipped down lower. Every nerve tingled, every sensation multiplied as his strong hands and long fingers scrubbed her scalp, washed her hair, and helped to put her disguise back into place.