The Prospect: The Malloy Family, Book 10

by Beth Williamson

  She rolled over and pillowed her cheek on her hand. Those beautiful brown eyes locked on his. “Why do you call me that? I am not little by any definition. I am taller than most women by far.”

  He grinned at her definition of what little was. “You are little compared to me. Most people are.”

  Her brows came together. “I suppose that is a logical conclusion, but I do not feel little. Most days I feel ungainly, staring down at most other ladies while they crane their necks and look at me with pity.”

  Declan had no idea women would be cruel to someone who was superior to them in height. What was the purpose in that? “They’re a bunch of harpies.”

  She sighed. “That is definitely one way to describe them. I learned to ignore them.”

  He didn’t think she was entirely truthful about that, but he wasn’t going to dispute it with her. She could pretend not to be hurt if it helped. What he’d like to do was teach her to understand those women were wrong about her.

  “You shouldn’t have to. They’re foolish bitches who cannot see you are more than they are.” He hadn’t meant to say that, but there it was. Stupid heart of his.

  She reached for her spectacles on the bedpost behind her and put them on. Like an owl, she blinked at him for a few moments. “It sounds as though you truly believe that.”

  He snorted. “I do, but you don’t. That’s the difference between us, lass. I can see what you don’t.”

  She pursed her lips. “I could say the same thing to you, Declan. No matter how much you tell me you are an unworthy, blackened soul, I can see beyond that charred exterior you show the world.”

  He was uncomfortable with the direction the conversation headed. There was no time to be curious about what Jo thought of him.

  “We need to talk about our escape, not emotional foolishness I cannot do a thing about.” He got to his feet and lit the lamp beside him on the floor. “I’m going to make coffee and then we make plans.”

  She frowned. “There will come a day you cannot hide from me or your emotions, Declan.”

  “Today ain’t that day. Now do what you must while I make coffee. I need it strong.”

  He turned his back and poured water from the pitcher into the coffeepot, followed by the last of the grounds. It was difficult to ignore the sounds of the splash of water, the scuff of a washrag and the slide of fabric along her soft skin. Memories of cleaning that same skin roared through him. He almost singed himself on the tiny stove stoking up the embers.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  “I will need to pack my things today. How large of a bag can I carry?”

  He glanced at her, noting she braided her hair with an efficiency that didn’t surprise him. “Small enough to carry on your back without my help. We’ll need to have our arms free.”

  She frowned. “Will we tie the bags to ourselves?”

  “That’s the idea.” He stared at the dented coffeepot, willing it to boil. His body ached for the hot, strong beverage.

  “Interesting. I see the logic behind that choice. However, it will be difficult to select a small amount of items to bring with me.” She knelt down by the trunk and peered in.

  “As long as you don’t have a bag packed when Drummond comes by with the supplies.” He didn’t want the medic to have any inkling of what they planned.

  “That is a valid point. I will make a small pile in the corner of the trunk that I can wrap up quickly.” Jo looked up at him and cocked her head. “You have your things to bring as well?”

  He shrugged. “Ain’t much. A spare shirt and trousers, a few weapons.”

  “I envy that. My life has been filled with belongings. Then we had to sell much of it to fund our trip to Missouri before leaving New York. What we had left we stared at and remembered what we had sacrificed.” Her gaze was fixed far away. “I would like to begin with less than a houseful of belongings and focus on the things in life that are truly important.”

  He was surprised by her viewpoint. Considering how little he’d had growing up, he couldn’t imagine wishing he had nothing. He had always wished for more of anything and everything. Although he could never miss something he never owned.

  “What do you think is important?” He shouldn’t have asked, but he wanted to know.

  Her brows came together. “Family. And books.”

  At that he snorted a laugh. “Books? Aye, I carried them in the cabin on my back. Heavy bastards.”

  “I will choose only one to bring with me. That will be the most difficult decision.” She ran her hands along the spines of the books in the trunk.

  He followed the course of her fingers, the long tips gently stroking the tomes. After he found himself wishing he were a book, he jerked his gaze away. Declan was dumber than a stump for such thoughts. No doubt Jo would laugh if she knew.

  “The coffee is boiling.”

  Her voice cut through his rambling brain. Damn. Declan almost grabbed the pot barehanded too.

  “Take care!”

  Grabbing his shirttail, he picked up the pot and poured a cup. There was only one, so they would have to share. Declan contemplated giving Jo the first taste of coffee but decided to be selfish. He slurped down the hot brew, scalding his mouth and throat. With his eyes watering and his guts boiling, he poured a second cup and brought it to her.

  She climbed into the chair and took it from him. “Are you all right?”

  “No.” His voice rasped out of his tortured throat. “I shouldna done that.”

  “Sometimes I drink coffee too quickly. Maman thinks I should drink tea like a lady, but I prefer the strong taste of coffee. Tea is too weak and quite boring.” Jo blew on the coffee and sipped it, like the lady she claimed not to be.

  He thought about drinking straight from the coffeepot but decided he didn’t need to burn his lips right along with his upper half. Silence descended around them, uncomfortable and full of unspoken words. He waited for her to drink, anxious to do something to pass the time until Drummond arrived.

  Breakfast would be dried beef and canned peaches. It would fill their bellies even if it wasn’t fancy. He pulled the knife from the sheaf on his back and pried the can open, still trying to ignore the sounds of her gentle slurping. The can opened easily, the succulent peaches glistening in the lamplight.

  They had only one plate to use, since all the kitchen items belonged to Jo. Her family had made sure she was provided for. Declan had nothing, not even a utensil except his knife. A twinge of something pinched his heart. No one ever made sure he had what he needed except himself. The Chastains loved their daughter, that wasn’t hard to do. He stared at the tin plate—a simple thing, but it held a great deal of meaning for a man who had little in his life. It might be a possession to rid herself of, but Declan knew better. It was a sign of someone in the world caring for her, a light in the darkness of life.

  He shook off the shadows chasing his back and put meat and peaches on the plate for her. She was still recovering from the fever and needed to get as much strength as possible to be on the run with him. Her sister had grit, proved herself as strong as any man on the trail. He expected Jo had the same spine of steel. However, he doubted she’d ridden on a horse for days on end, astride no less. Later he’d tell her she would have a new experience to add to her life’s memories.

  He handed her the plate and took the cup from her, stupidly eager to have coffee from the same cup her mouth had touched. His lips would press against the cup where her lips had been. It was the only kissing he ought to be contemplating.

  She thanked him politely and ate everything with the same grace she had sipped the coffee. A knock at the door startled her. She stared at the door and swallowed the bite with a loud gulp.

  “Let me talk. Keep eating your breakfast like a good girl.”

  That was enough to release the brief spurt of fear that had gripped her. Her gaze narrowed as she watched him move to the door. He fully expected to hear her opinion on his orders later.

  D
eclan opened the door to find both Drummond and Parker standing there. Each of them had supplies in their arms.

  “Morning, Callahan.” Drummond pasted a bland half smile on his face.

  Parker was a severe man with a small, narrow frame, black hair and beady eyes. He didn’t say much, spoke in grunts mostly. The pistol hanging on his hip marked him as a man who took his job seriously. Declan had tucked away his weapons in the sack behind the trunk. Parker didn’t know Declan was armed—one advantage to the situation.

  To his consternation, Jo popped up beside him. Drummond pulled his neckerchief up around his mouth and elbowed Parker until he did the same. She stared at the men in her peculiar intense way. She hadn’t met Parker before and his reaction to her scrutiny was interesting. He shifted from foot to foot, his gaze skittering around the room.

  “Mrs. Callahan, good to see you up.” Drummond spoke through the blue fabric.

  “I am quite well, Mr. Drummond. Fully recovered from the illness.” She peered at the supplies. “I am looking forward to something besides weak soup.”

  Declan grimaced at her statement. His soup was filling and better than gnawing on rocks.

  “Leave the diagnosing to those who know the healing arts.” Drummond likely smiled like a coyote behind the cotton.

  Jo looked as though she was going to respond, but changed her mind. She nodded tightly. “I appreciate your assistance during my illness.”

  “She talks fancy,” Parker grumbled beneath his neckerchief.

  “I speak as an educated person, sir. I was a teacher back in New York. I have taught numerous children how to read, write and do arithmetic, not to mention languages.” She put her shoulders back, looking pale and bedraggled, but proud nonetheless. Declan was pleased to see how nice she looked beside him, like she belonged there. “My name is Mrs. Josephine Chastain Callahan. And you are?”

  Parker’s face flushed red enough Declan could see it. “Parker. I take care of the folks around the fort, get rid of the riffraff and keep the peace.”

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Parker.” Jo was nothing if not a lady, again.

  Drummond set the supplies on the floor. “If you don’t mind paying for these, we can be on our way.”

  Declan reached into his pocket “How much?”

  “Five dollars should cover it.”

  Josephine gasped but didn’t speak. Thank God the woman showed a lick of sense. He had told her what Drummond and Parker were about. This was not the time to get on her high horse. Declan paid him and took the supplies from Parker.

  “And the quarantine? Will you remove it now that I am recovered?” The woman didn’t appear to be able to hold her tongue after all. Declan wanted to spank her.

  “As I told you yesterday, I ain’t lifting the quarantine because you’re bored.” Drummond turned to leave.

  Jo appeared to want to either slap or strangle the man, but Declan held her arm, waylaying any violence she might commit. She fairly vibrated under his touch, her muscles bunched and hardened. He shouldn’t be surprised to find she was furious. The woman had passion running deep inside her like an underground raging river.

  “We’ll speak next week.” Drummond tapped his hat with two fingers. “Good day to you, folks.”

  Parker remained a few moments longer, his gaze now firmly locked on Jo. A growl sounded low in Declan’s throat. He didn’t even remember moving, but he found himself looking down at the much shorter man, hands fisted and teeth clenched.

  “You have something to say, Parker?” Declan barked out. “Or is there some reason you’re staring at my wife like that?”

  Parker’s gaze narrowed. “You’d best back down, Callahan. It’s my job to know everything about everyone in this fort. You’ve no call to piss on me.”

  “That includes memorizing the size of my wife’s breasts?” As soon as the words left his mouth, he wanted to cram them back inside. He could feel Jo’s stare burning a hole in his back. The air grew heavy with the unsaid threats threatening to follow the stupid question he’d just blurted.

  “Watch your mouth, Callahan.” Parker backed up, his hand on his gun.

  Declan knew he was in the wrong, the tang of jealousy bitter on his tongue. He held up his hands in mock surrender, annoyed he’d let himself challenge the man. They were going to escape tonight and now he’d given the man a reason to watch the shack.

  “I don’t mean nothing by it. Been cooped up with a woman for four weeks. I’m liable to say anything.” Declan tried to sound offhand and apologetic but ended up sounding awkward and foolish.

  Packer disappeared from view with one last narrowed gaze at both of them. The peacekeeper of the fort was a little shit Declan wanted to smash him into the ground with his boot. Small man with a big gun and a bad attitude. He knew the type, had spent his time pounding them into pulp back in New York. Here he was no one, a nobody who had no gang behind him, vulnerable because of the woman he protected and the crimes he hid.

  Declan didn’t like it one bit.

  Jo’s stomach fluttered with fear and excitement. The night had closed in around the little cabin; the meager light from the lantern could barely touch the thick shadows. Her bag was packed, tied snugly around her shoulders and arms. She had her hair coiled tightly under a cloth and she wore her blue dress, the pink one tucked neatly into the pack.

  Declan carried a much larger pack with the staples they would need. He wore the pistol on his hip and a huge knife tucked into a scabbard at his waist. If she didn’t know him, if he wasn’t her almost husband, his visage would have frightened her. He was big, armed and fierce. Silly as it sounded, he made her feel feminine although her current wardrobe was shapeless and nondescript. He was a man’s man, without an inch of softness anywhere.

  To her delight, he offered her a gun, one that fit into the pocket of her dress. He called it a pepper-box revolver. She hadn’t used one before, but her father had taught all his daughters how to shoot. She could use it if she needed to. Having it within reach gave her strength, a false sense of power she would embrace even if it was fleeting.

  They both looked ready for battle. In a way, they were opening themselves up for a war. Jo hoped their escape went unnoticed and they could slip off into the night. She wasn’t fool enough to believe it would happen so easily, but she could still hope. What they were doing was dangerous and they could die in the next hour. She considered telling Declan of her dreams of him. She didn’t want to die without confessing how she felt, but she didn’t know if she had the courage to do so.

  Before she could make up her mind, Declan snuffed the lantern and he took her hand. “Let’s go.”

  They moved toward the door like a pair of furtive thieves. He opened the door and stood in place, peering out into the night. The night held many sounds—low voices, a few dogs barking, the muffled sound of insects singing their songs in the darkness.

  “Declan,” she whispered, eager to tell him before they left the security of the tiny shack.

  “Shh.” He slipped out the door, pulling her with him.

  “I have to—”

  He pressed his mouth against her ear. “If you don’t shut up, lass, you’re going to kill us. Shut. Up.”

  She wanted to tell him what he could do with his high-handedness, but he was already in motion. Jo was helpless to do anything but keep up. He picked up the saddle sitting at the corner of the house and hoisted it on his shoulder with hardly a sound. With only one horse, having a saddle would be critical to keep the animal, and them, comfortable.

  The night creatures sang around them, filling the air with a symphony of sound. Nature provided enough noise to disguise their escape. Jo could hardly see in the dark, and her spectacles made it worse. She hung onto Declan’s belt, her other hand firmly wrapped around the butt of the pistol in her pocket. Nothing could make her let go of either of them.

  The low murmur of voices sounded far off. Declan stuck to the outer circle of the fort, away from the o
ther buildings. According to Declan, the livery was at the opposite corner of the fort near the entrance. That was convenient for their escape, but they had to travel quite far to get there.

  Each tiny jingle of the saddle, crack of gravel or shuffle of her boot had her nerves on edge. Her heart lodged in her throat, nearly choking her. Her entire body tingled with terror, but she didn’t let even a smidge of a scream out, although she surely wanted to. Her mouth might not ever be able to form spit again and she wouldn’t be able to swallow anything but the howls that threatened.

  Declan appeared calm, and for that she wanted to hate him, but she didn’t. He was the anchor she hung onto, the guide in the terror in which she swam. It had been her idea to run, and now she was more afraid than a child with her first nightmare. Jo wasn’t a coward. She was her mother’s daughter. Maman was a woman who embodied what it meant to be strong.

  Jo dug until she found the well of courage that hid behind the fear. She straightened her shoulders and clenched her teeth. She would survive. She would escape. She would have a chance to tell Declan how she felt. There was no other acceptable option.

  Somehow they made it to the livery without anyone taking notice of them. The sound of horses shuffling their hooves, the smell of equine flesh and their subsequent droppings filled the air. She let out a breath she’d been holding and sucked in a shaky one.

  He stopped and waited, and she wondered who or what might be able to hear her heart pounding like a drum. It was certainly deafening her. She thought it might actually jump out of her chest when he touched her cheek. She understood he was trying to ascertain the state of her panic. Jo nodded against his rough fingers, giving him the approval to keep going.

  They crept into the barn, the smell now strong enough to make her eyes water. She had learned to take care of the oxen, which smelled worse than horses, but it appeared the farrier was not as adept at keeping the barn clean. Either that or the horses had secretly gorged themselves on oats and left enough droppings for two or three wheelbarrows.

  She needed to cough but bit her lip to keep it contained. No noise, not a sound. She almost choked as her throat moved to rid itself of the tickle. She made it her sworn duty to keep that damn cough from escaping. Tears rolled down her cheeks, silent and uncomfortable, but she kept the cough contained.