He wasn’t sure why he felt that way. It wasn’t like he was a boy anymore. He’d been with a number of women, including the beautiful young prostitute Jennie, who had taught him just about everything there was to know about what men and women could do together under the blankets, or the buffalo robe, as the case might be.
Of course, he wasn’t thinking about that sort of frolicking with Laura Mallory. He’d just met her, for goodness’ sake!
But since they were both still standing there on the trading post’s front porch, and she was smiling expectantly as if she were waiting for him to say something else, he figured he’d better come up with something. With the sort of life he led, alone most of the time with Dog and Horse, conversation wasn’t his strong suit.
“You, uh, come out here to settle, Miss Mallory?”
“That’s right,” she replied. “I came along with my brother Clyde.”
“Oh? Where’s he?”
“Over there with the wagons.” Laura pointed with a slender, graceful finger.
Preacher turned to look, and saw a man in a buckskin jacket and broad-brimmed hat bustling around, apparently supervising the unloading of goods from the wagons. Clyde Mallory also wore whipcord trousers and high-topped boots, and he packed a pistol on one hip and a sheathed knife on the other. In that outfit, and with his lean, weathered face, he looked more like a frontiersman than an expatriate Englishman.
“Appears he brought a whole passel of supplies with him,” Preacher commented.
Laura laughed, and to Preacher it sounded like the clear, cold water of a mountain stream flowing over a rocky bed. “Indeed he did,” she said. “Everything in the wagon train, in fact.”
Preacher frowned. “Folks gen’rally don’t bring that much with ’em when they come out here to settle.”
“But that’s not Clyde’s intention,” Laura explained. “You see, this is the first trip of the Mallory Freight Line.”
Preacher’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I never heard of it before.”
“That’s because Clyde has just established it. Several settlements have been established between here and St. Louis. Clyde intends to provide freight service to all of them including this one, which is the westernmost settlement. As such, it will be one hub of the line, with St. Louis being the other, and I’ll be staying here to keep an eye on Clyde’s interests while he’s gone on the long trips back and forth.”
Preacher was dumbfounded. He had never heard of such a thing as a woman helping to run a business.
It was obvious to anyone who looked at her, though, that Laura Mallory wasn’t a typical woman.
She must have seen his response and recognized it, because she went on with a new note of crispness in her voice. “I assure you, I’m up to the task. I’ve been well educated.”
“Yes, ma’am, I reckon a whole lot better than me, more’n likely. I’m sure you can handle the job.” Preacher didn’t know what else to say.
Laura’s attitude eased a bit. “You’ve gathered by now that Clyde and I aren’t from around here.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Clyde is my father’s second son, you see. You know about the law of primogeniture?”
Preacher nodded in understanding. “Yes, ma’am. I never made much sense of it, but I’ve known some fellas who came over here because of it.”
Most of the Englishmen who made their way to the American frontier were so-called remittance men. Because they weren’t the firstborn sons, they could never inherit their fathers’ estates. As he had indicated to Laura, that seemed like a mighty odd law to Preacher, but the Englishers hadn’t asked his opinion before they came up with it.
And for some other equally odd reason, the Englishers seemed to be a mite embarrassed by those second sons and usually shipped them off somewhere. Out of sight, out of mind, as the old saying went. From what Preacher had heard, a lot of them went into the army and helped England preserve its far-flung empire. Others came to America to make new lives for themselves, often helped out in doing so by regular payments from home, the remittance that gave them their nickname.
Most of the Englishmen Preacher had met had been pretty good fellas, eager to learn the ways of the frontier and tough as nails when they had to be. Clyde Mallory looked like he might fit into that category.
“I’ll introduce you,” Laura said. She stepped to the edge of the porch and waved to attract her brother’s attention. “Clyde!” she called. “Clyde, over here, darling!”
Where Preacher came from, gals didn’t call their brothers darling, but he knew not to make anything out of it. For folks who shared the same language, those Englishers sure did talk funny some of the time.
Clyde Mallory turned to look toward the trading post in response to his sister’s summons, then spoke to one of the men who was unloading the wagons, probably giving him some instructions. Then he came toward the building, his long legs carrying him with confident strides.
“What is it, Laura?” he asked with a touch of impatience in his voice. “There’s still a great deal to do, you know.”
“Yes, of course,” Laura said, “but I wanted you to meet Preacher.”
“The local minister?” Clyde looked at Preacher’s buckskins, broad-brimmed felt hat, and bearded face, and seemed puzzled. “I’m pleased to meet you, Reverend, but I must say—”
Laura’s laughter interrupted him. “No, dear, not a preacher or the preacher. Simply Preacher.”
“It’s what they call me,” Preacher said. He went down the steps to the ground and extended his hand to Clyde Mallory. “Mighty pleased to meet you. Your sister’s been tellin’ me about your plans to start a freight line runnin’ betwixt here and St. Louis.”
Clyde took Preacher’s hand, and his grip had plenty of strength, as Preacher expected. “Those are my intentions,” he said. He let go of Preacher’s hand and turned slightly to gesture toward the wagons. “We’ll have to wait and see how things work out, of course. But I’m encouraged by the welcome we’ve received here.”
Corliss and Jerome Hart came out onto the porch in time to hear Clyde’s words. Jerome said, “We were certainly glad to see you, Mr. Mallory. Our stock shows signs of running low soon. One of us was going to have to go back to St. Louis, arrange for more supplies, and then bring them out here. Instead, you arrive unexpectedly with everything we’ll need to keep us in business for six months or more!”
Clyde smiled, although his eyes remained cool and reserved. “It was a gamble admittedly, but based on everything we heard back in St. Louis about what was happening out here, we felt that it was worth the risk, didn’t we, Laura?”
“Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here,” Laura said. “Ah, is that my tea, Mr. Hart?”
“Call me Corliss,” he said. He held out the paper-wrapped package to her. “This is all we have.”
“And we didn’t bring any more.”
“You can learn to drink coffee like a proper American,” her brother told her. “After all, that’s what we are now.”
Laura’s chin came up in a slight show of defiance. “We’ll always be citizens of the British Empire, Clyde, no matter what you say.”
Clyde’s mouth hardened under his sandy mustache. “We’ll discuss that another time, Laura,” he snapped. “I have to get back to the wagons.” He turned to Preacher and nodded. “It was a pleasure meeting you, sir.”
“Likewise,” Preacher said, even though he hadn’t really warmed up to Clyde Mallory. Something about the man said that he liked to keep his distance from folks and not get too friendly with them.
Mallory walked back over to the wagons. Laura watched him go and shook her head.
“I apologize for my brother’s behavior,” she said. “Clyde’s been rather short-tempered since he…resigned his commission in the army.”
Her slight hesitation told Preacher that maybe Mallory’s resignation from the British army hadn’t been entirely his own idea. Maybe he’d run into some trouble with a superior officer and
been forced to leave.
“He seemed fine to me,” Corliss said. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of Laura, which didn’t surprise Preacher all that much. Corliss Hart had an eye for a pretty girl, sure enough, even though he had a mighty good-looking wife of his own. A wife who was with child at that.
But Corliss’s wandering eye was none of Preacher’s business. He came back up onto the porch and said, “I reckon I’d better start gatherin’ those supplies if I’m gonna put some miles behind me ’fore nightfall.”
“You’re leaving?” Laura asked. “But you just got here.”
“Oh, Preacher never stays around here for very long,” Jerome said. “He’s too restless for that. Always on the move, eh, Preacher?”
“I reckon,” Preacher drawled.
But as he thought about the fact that Laura Mallory was going to be here at the settlement in the future, he began to wonder if maybe it was time he stopped bein’ so fiddle-footed…
Chapter 7
Preacher let the Hart cousins talk him into staying overnight again. To tell the truth, they didn’t have to work very hard at it. Until a cabin could be built for Laura Mallory, she would be staying in one of the wagons that had been outfitted for her. She had traveled out here from St. Louis in it, and it would remain her home for the time being.
And those wagons would be parked next to the trading post until Clyde Mallory was ready to take them back east loaded with pelts. Over the past year, many of the trappers in the area had begun trading or selling their furs to the Hart cousins, rather than taking packhorses all the way back to St. Louis or paddling down the Missouri River in canoes. Corliss and Jerome, in turn, had an arrangement with one of the big fur companies to supply pelts. So far they had been doing so on a small scale, but if Mallory’s freight operation was a success, they could expand their own business.
Preacher wasn’t sure why he was making such a fool of himself over Laura. Sure, she was a mighty pretty woman, but he hadn’t been seriously involved with anybody since Jennie…and that relationship had come to a tragic end. Preacher had pretty much sworn off romance ever since then, except for an occasional romp with a willing Indian gal or one of the soiled doves who showed up at Rendezvous.
Of course, it wasn’t like he had announced his intention to pay court to Laura or anything. He hadn’t even paid that much attention to her during the day, choosing to keep his distance instead.
He’d spent his time getting another load of supplies together, buying a packhorse to replace the one that had been killed in the avalanche, and fending off Jake’s efforts to talk him into taking him along when he left. The boy purely hated the idea of going to school once the teacher arrived.
One corner of the trading post’s cavernous main room was where the mountain men congregated to eat, drink whiskey, and swap lies. Bouchard and Jock had pulled out the day before, same as Preacher, so he didn’t have any close friends on hand at the moment. That didn’t bother him. He was used to his own company. He sat there alone in the corner that evening, taking an occasional nip from a jug and wondering if Laura had turned in yet.
As if fate wanted to answer his question, both of the Mallorys walked into the trading post at that moment. Laura still wore the same dark green traveling outfit but not the matching hat. The light from the lanterns shone on her fair hair, making it glow like the sun, Preacher thought.
She spotted him in the corner and smiled, and he thought she would have come over to say hello if Corliss hadn’t intercepted her and her brother and practically dragged them over to the counter in the rear of the room. Deborah and Jerome were there, and all three of the Harts seemed to enjoy the conversation they carried on with the Mallorys. It had been a while since anybody except rough frontiersmen had visited here. Laura and Clyde were even better than fellow Easterners…they were English, Preacher thought as he chuckled to himself.
After a while, though, Laura extricated herself and came over to the corner where Preacher sat. He saw her heading in his direction, and for a second he felt the impulse to cut and run. That wouldn’t look good, though, so he stayed where he was, setting the jug aside and rising to his feet to greet her as she came up to him.
“Howdy, ma’am,” he said gravely. “How are you this evenin’?”
“I’m fine, Preacher,” Laura replied. She nodded toward the barrel chair where he’d been sitting. “Please, don’t inconvenience yourself on my account. Have a seat.”
Instead, Preacher suggested, “Why don’t you take the chair, Miss Mallory? You’ll be more comfortable.”
“Then where will you sit?”
“I’ll just pull up this here keg,” he said. It was more of a barrel and was filled with something heavy, but Preacher wrestled it over into place anyway.
“Preacher, I get the distinct feeling that you’ve been avoiding me this afternoon,” Laura said with an accusing look on her face. “Did I do something to offend or insult you?”
That was the farthest thing from the truth. The reason he’d been steering clear of her was because he didn’t want to try to talk to her and start stumbling over his words like a lovestruck youngster. He was way too old for that.
“Why, no, ma’am, Miss Laura, not at all. I’ve just been a mite busy, that’s all. I had to get some supplies together for when I leave tomorrow.”
She smiled. “I’m glad you decided to stay an extra night anyway. That gives me a chance to get to know you a little better.”
Preacher wasn’t sure why a lady like her would even want to know him at all, but he didn’t say that. Instead, he sort of sat there like a bump on a log until Laura leaned toward him and spoke again.
“Mr. Hart tells me that someone tried to kill you by starting an avalanche. How perfectly dreadful.”
“Well, it ain’t like it was the first time,” Preacher said without thinking. “A couple o’ varmints tried to bushwhack me the day before that.”
“Is life on the frontier always so…violent and unpredictable?”
“It can be,” he said. “You got wild animals and wild Indians both out here, and some mighty bad weather at times, and even some bad men.”
“Highwaymen, you mean? Brigands?”
“Cutthroats and murderers, sure enough,” he told her. “Fellas who’ll steal your pelts and kill you without even blinkin’ to boot. I ain’t tryin’ to scare you, ma’am, but it’d be mighty smart o’ you to stay right close to the tradin’ post while you’re out here.”
“I assure you, that’s exactly what I intend to do,” she said. “But you can’t do that, can you? You have your traps to check.”
“That’s right. I don’t worry overmuch, though. I can take care o’ myself, and I’m in the habit o’ bein’ careful.”
“I hope you will be very careful.” She smiled warmly at him. “I hope to see you again whenever you come back to the settlement.”
Preacher wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he just said, “Yes’m. I’d like that, too.”
Several men were sitting at a rough-hewn table closer to the front of the room. Preacher had noticed them earlier, but since he had seen them around the settlement on previous visits and they weren’t exactly strangers, he didn’t pay much attention to them. He didn’t figure they were part of the mysterious bunch trying to kill him.
A big towheaded fella named Sanderson was the leader of the bunch. With him were a short, stocky man who sported a bristly mustache, a white-bearded, long-haired old-timer, and a couple of heavy-faced gents who looked like Dutchmen. Preacher didn’t know their names, but he knew where they ran their trap lines and avoided them. A man didn’t poach on another fella’s territory unless it was by accident.
Now, as Preacher sat there and tried to think up something else to say to Laura Mallory, the old-timer pulled out a fiddle and began to play, sawing the bow across the strings with more energy and enthusiasm than talent. The raucous notes filled the trading post and made everyone look around.
Laura smiled
and clapped her hands together softly. “Music!” she exclaimed. “Do you know how long it’s been since I heard any music, Preacher?”
“No, ma’am, but I’d say you’re bein’ a mite generous to call that music. Sounds more to me like somebody tied two cats’ tails together and dropped ’em on either side of a fence.”
“Oh, it does not,” she said with a merry laugh. “I think it sounds just fine. Fine enough, in fact, that I’d like to dance.” She stood up and held out a hand to him. “Would you be kind enough as to dance with me, good sir?”
Preacher’s eyes widened in surprise. He had done some dancing before—there was always a lot of celebratin’ that went on at a Rendezvous, including stomping around in rough approximations of the sort of dances that folks did back East—but he had never done anything like that with a woman as beautiful as Laura Mallory in his arms.
“Please, Preacher,” she said when he hesitated. “It would almost make me feel like I was back home again.”
No way in hell could he turn down a plea like that. He stood up, took hold of her hand—being careful not to squeeze it too hard—and said, “It’d be a plumb honor, ma’am.”
She moved closer to him. “If you’re going to take me in your arms and whirl me around the floor,” she said, “I think you should stop calling me ma’am and just call me Laura.”
Preacher swallowed hard. “All right, ma’am. I’ll try.”
He held her left hand with his right and slipped his left arm around her waist, being careful not to hold her too close. She wasn’t much closer than arm’s length, in fact. She rested her right hand on his shoulder, and he seemed to feel the warmth of her touch through his buckskin shirt. He definitely felt it in the hand he grasped. Their fingers twined together intimately. He took a deep breath—which reminded him that, Lord, she smelled good!—and began moving his feet in a rough waltz.
Whatever you do, he told himself, don’t stomp on her toes.
There wasn’t much room for dancing, but they made a fair job of it. Laura followed his steps, although Preacher sensed that she was holding back and could probably dance a whole heap better than he could. The Dutchmen had started clapping in time with the old fiddle player, and as Preacher and Laura turned in the waltz, he saw that everybody in the trading post was watching them. That sort of scrutiny made him uncomfortable, but he tried to ignore it.
Preacher's Pursuit (The First Mountain Man) Page 5
