by Radclyffe
She set her valise at the foot of the bed, hung her coat on the back of the single chair that stood against the opposite wall, and wandered to the single casement window. The saloon, unmarked by any sign, was visible on the opposite side of the street. If she angled her head, she could see Caleb’s office. Moving back to the bed, she sat to kick off her boots and then stretched out on top of the covers. Splinters of moonlight shafted across the ceiling, making random patterns that she watched take shape and dissolve and reshape while she waited for sleep. It was an exercise that she had discovered would bring some temporary respite from her memories, if not slumber.
Sleep stole unsuspectingly through her consciousness, and she found herself once again at Appomattox Court House, sweating in the cold morning mist of fear and smoke. The rough wooden table was awash with blood. No matter how fast she worked, every time she looked up there were more wounded. Her arms were crimson to the elbows, and still they came, the ruined and the broken, crying her name. Milton stood beside her, repeating over and over, no more time, no more time, no more time. She ignored the panic in his voice, the terror in his eyes, and just kept cutting. Her chest ached. Her lungs burned. She reached for the amputation knife. Just one more. Just one more. Just one more. The ground heaved, fire erupted at her feet, and red-hot pain seared her flesh. She looked down and saw herself writhing on the table, a faceless man poised above her with a saw in his hand.
Vance jolted upright, screaming. Quickly, she wrapped her arm around her bent knees and pressed her face against the rough wool of her trousers. She stifled her sobs as she fought for breath, her shirt soaked with the sweat of night terrors. When the clutch of the nightmare began to recede, she turned her face to the window and rested her cheek against the top of her knee. It hadn’t been this bad in a long time. For a second, as her own harsh breath filled the room to overflowing, she thought she heard the sound of the fife and drum. As her heart stopped thundering in her ears, she realized it was a piano.
She stood, her legs still a little shaky, and walked to the window. Across the street, the saloon and some of the rooms on the upper floors were ablaze. Every few seconds a figure would go in or out through the swinging doors. In a lighted second-floor window she saw a man and a woman locked in an embrace, her dress lifted up to her hips as his hands roamed beneath it. Vance didn’t immediately look away, taken with the urgent sense of life that surrounded the couple, thinking of what Caleb had said about the girls who lived there. She wondered if the woman who bent beneath the weight of the cowboy’s passion welcomed his touch or was merely an indifferent player in an oft-repeated drama.
She tried to imagine desire and couldn’t. Her pocket watch read a few minutes past one. Turning away, she walked to the dresser and found, to her surprise, that the pitcher was full. She poured a few inches of tepid water into the tin basin and splashed her face before stripping off the sour shirt. Then she soaked the tail of her shirt and rubbed it over her chest and shoulders before tossing it aside and pulling another from her valise. She also retrieved her holster and Colt .45, the same weapon she had worn throughout the war, and strapped it on.
Silas looked up at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. “Couldn’t sleep?”
Vance regarded him impassively. “No. I could.”
She walked out, unaware that he stared after her with a mixture of curiosity and unease.
The saloon was still half full, mostly with men drinking at the bar or tables, a few apparently asleep with their heads on their folded arms, and the remainder playing cards. In the far corner a scantily clad woman sat in a man’s lap with her head on his shoulder while he fondled her breasts. Vance walked to the bar.
“Help you?” asked a middle-aged man with full sideburns, a barrel chest, and dark eyes that had seen all there was to see.
“Whiskey.”
The bartender poured a shot and then set the bottle down next to Vance’s right hand. “I’m Frank.”
She pushed several coins toward his side of the bar. “Thanks.”
“If you want everybody in town to know who you are, you can tell me now and be done with it.” Frank shrugged. “If you don’t, it might take a little longer, but sooner or later the same thing will happen.”
“If I stay here more than a week, word will get around anyhow.” Vance tossed back the shot and poured another one. “And if I don’t, it won’t matter.” She held out her hand. “Vance Phelps. One-time surgeon and, now, Dr. Melbourne’s new assistant.”
“From back East.” He said it as if it were a statement, not a question.
“More or less.” Vance sensed someone move up beside her and glanced sideways. A woman with deep green eyes, golden hair, and the purest skin she’d ever seen stood beside her in a deep indigo dress with a low-cut, tight bodice that cradled her breasts like a lover’s hands. Sparkling blue stones set in gold swung lightly from her earlobes, brushing her neck with a mesmerizing caress. Despite the whiskey she’d just drunk, Vance’s throat was dry and her mind blank of everything except the tantalizing scent of perfume and the pale perfection of the woman’s face. Frank, the other men in the saloon, even the remnants of her dream, vanished.
“Frank talked your ear off yet?” Mae asked, her voice low and sultry.
“Not yet,” Vance managed. She downed her whiskey, her nerves jangling. “You must be Mae.”
“Now why would you say that?” Mae nodded when Frank held up a bottle of brandy questioningly. She took the glass from him, but did not drink as she studied Vance. There were deep shadows under her eyes, and deeper ones within. She’d seen her come in, a stranger in a well-cut suit who seemed not to care that a woman, even one whose dress and carriage indicated she gave no credence to the opinions of others, might draw unwanted attention in a place like this. Attention that Mae was not certain that a woman with one arm could turn aside.
“Caleb Melbourne said you were the finest-looking thing west of the Mississippi.” Vance spoke quietly with neither sarcasm nor insinuation. “He was right.”
Mae threw back her head and laughed. “It would appear that both the town’s doctors are sweet-talkers, then.”
Vance frantically searched for something to say just to hear this woman’s full, vibrant voice a little longer. After the cold, dark embrace of her dreams, she found herself inexplicably craving the vitality and warmth that surrounded Mae. “Since I’m speechless, I beg to differ.”
“Well,” Mae said, sipping her brandy. “Why don’t you start with your name.”
“Something tells me you might already know that and more.”
Mae smiled. “Smart, too. But I imagine a woman wanting to be a doctor would have to be.”
“Or stubborn.”
“Both, I’ll wager.” Mae watched Vance pour another shot, saw her hand tremble. “I can’t say that I’m not curious. Since I know you’re no fool, you have to know folks will want to know your story.”
Vance tilted her chin toward the room and the men—drifters, gamblers, trail hands, and businessmen. All had one thing in common. They were all here in the middle of the night staving off loneliness or simply trying to fill the hours until the habit of their day began again. One thing was certain, they all had stories. “I’d have thought you’d have heard enough of those by now.”
“I expect yours is different.”
“Why?” Vance finished her whiskey, contemplated the bottle, and pushed her glass aside. While the temptation to slide inside the bottle was strong, Mae’s presence was stronger.
“You’re not a man.” Mae watched a bitter smile flicker across Vance’s face. Even in men’s clothing, in a place no decent woman would be seen, drinking whiskey in the middle of a lonely night, no one would ever take her for a man. Her face was strong, with a tightness along her jaw that suggested she wouldn’t yield easily to trouble when it came her way. But there was a fineness to her skin, as if it were silk, and a delicate beauty in the elegant curve of her brow and the length of her dark lashes. It was ea
sy to see the woman in her, which made the thinly veiled anger and pain that rode just beneath the surface all the more compelling.
“Maybe not, but my story might be the same.”
“Oh,” Mae said, sipping her brandy and resting her fingers on the top of Vance’s hand where it lay on the bartop. “Are you going to tell me someone stole your stake and cashed in on your claim while you were on your way into town to file the deed?”
The corner of Vance’s mouth twitched. “Never got the gold fever.”
“Some no-account cheated at cards and won your horse, your saddle, and your last dollar?”
Vance shook her head. “I know when I’m beat, and I know when to fold them.”
“I wonder,” Mae mused, idly tracing the length of Vance’s fingers, one after the other, with a ruby red fingernail. “I’d be willing to bet you don’t give up easily.”
“Like I said,” Vance said roughly. “Stubborn doesn’t always mean smart.”
“Or,” Mae went on, knowing that whatever caused the anguish in Vance’s voice was something Vance wasn’t going to talk about now. Maybe never. “You’re going to tell me a woman broke your heart and ran off with the lying, yellow-bellied preacher.”
“Couldn’t be that,” Vance replied seriously, aware that Mae was watching her intently. “I make it a point to stay away from church.”
Mae smiled. “If you’re not worried about the preacher, you might want to attend the services come Sunday. The townsfolk are likely to take to you more if you do.”
Vance sighed. “Some things never change no matter how far away you go.”
“You been traveling a long time?” Mae asked gently.
“A little more than a year,” Vance answered, surprising herself at the admission. “Well, not the whole time. Part of it I spent in a hospital in Richmond.”
“How long?”
“Seven months.” Vance reached into her watch pocket, tipped out her pocket watch and looked at the time. “The night’s pretty well along and I’ve taken up enough of yours.”
“You’re not keeping me from anything I’d rather be doing.”
“Dr. Melbourne asked me to see to the young ladies here.”
“The young ladies.” Mae laughed quietly. She heard no hint of censure in Vance’s deep, rough-edged voice. Whatever anger lived inside her, it was for herself and not others. “The young ladies and I rarely rise before midafternoon.”
“I was counting you among their number,” Vance said with a trace of gallantry long unpracticed. “Surely you’re no older than your charges.”
“It seems you know quite a bit about me, as well, Dr. Phelps.”
Vance inclined her head and smiled fleetingly. “No more than what you want anyone to know, I’m sure.”
“Come by around six tomorrow and have supper with me. I’ll tell you about the girls then.”
Vance hesitated. She wasn’t in the habit of socializing, even casually. She had nothing to say that others could hear or that she would want to recount. It was enough for her to live with her past without inflicting it upon others.
“You’ll not be required to tell me your secrets.”
“And what if I should want to?” Vance held her breath, wondering just what she hoped to hear. Despite the circumstances or appearances, Mae was clever and far from the kind of beaten-down, destitute woman who ordinarily turned to prostitution as the last form of survival. Vance had been in enough large cities and desolate frontier towns to know what became of women who had no men to provide for them, no family to support them, and no skills to make their own way. Perhaps it was precisely because Mae defied expectations that she was drawn to her.
Mae closed her fingers around Vance’s wrist and leaned close enough that had Vance looked down, she would have been able to see the blush of rouge highlighting the deeper rose of her nipples. “I would be very pleased to listen.”
“Then I shall be pleased to attend you tomorrow evening.” Vance gently disengaged her wrist from Mae’s warm grasp and stepped away. “Good night, Mae.”
“Good night, Vance.”
Frank leaned on the bar as Mae watched Vance leave. “I can’t say as I’ve ever seen quite the likes of her before,” he said, not unkindly.
“No,” Mae said quietly, “neither have I.”
Chapter Five
Kate stretched and smiled contentedly beneath the cotton quilt, enjoying the feeling of awakening in her new home. Her home. Her home with Jessie. Although the bed beside her was empty, the warmth that lingered told her that Jessie had just gotten up. The sun was not yet high enough to brighten the room, and she sensed that it was just before dawn. She’d learned in just the few days she’d been there that Jessie always rose before the sun, as did the men in the bunkhouse that stood not far from the main house. The horses and other stock needed tending, and after a quick meal and coffee, the men often had to ride miles before they would reach whatever part of the ranch they would be working on that day. The hours of daylight were precious, and Jessie and her men worked from first light until last.
Although Jessie had insisted the first morning that Kate needed her rest and should not get up with her, Kate decided it was time for her to establish her presence in the daily life of the ranch. It was her life now, too. She rose and quickly dressed in the chill room, adding one of Jessie’s shirts over her dress for extra warmth. She liked the feel of the soft cotton because it reminded her of resting her cheek against Jessie’s shoulder when they embraced. Immediately, her body quickened to the memory of Jessie’s warm, supple form against hers.
“Oh, Jessie,” Kate murmured with a soft laugh. “I never could have imagined you.”
She hurried downstairs and into the kitchen. The lamp glowed on the counter, and when she checked the coals in the cast-iron stove, she saw that Jessie had laid on wood. The bucket sitting next to the dry sink was filled with fresh water, too, but the coffeepot was still cold.
Humming quietly, Kate set about making coffee and gathering the ingredients to cook breakfast. She was just pulling biscuits from the oven when the kitchen door opened and a brisk breeze preceded her lover.
“Good morning.” Kate set the baking tray on a cooling stone, dusted her hands on her apron, and met Jessie just inside the door. Jessie wore her work clothes—denim pants, cotton shirt, leather vest, and a sheepskin coat. Her blue eyes were bright, her face flushed from the chill and wind, and she looked gorgeous. Kate wrapped her arms around Jessie’s shoulders and kissed her. “Coffee’s on and the bacon’s almost done.”
Jessie held her tightly and rubbed her face against Kate’s hair. She was so wonderfully warm, so beautiful. “I still can’t believe you’re here.”
Kate stroked Jessie’s neck and ran her fingers through her hair. “Where else would I be? I’m home.”
“I love you.”
“Mmm, I love you.” Kate leaned back in Jessie’s arms and regarded her playfully. “You took advantage of me last evening.”
Feigning innocence, Jessie gave Kate one more squeeze, then let her go. She hung her Stetson on a peg inside the door, removed her coat, and draped it over the back of the wooden chair. Without looking directly at Kate, she said, “Can’t think what you mean.”
“Well,” Kate said as she poured coffee into the large tin cups they used for everyday, “after we had a fine dinner, you laid on a fire in the bedroom and turned the lamp down so we could snuggle under the covers. Watch the fire a bit, you said.”
Jessie laid out strips of bacon on two plates, added a biscuit to each, and carried them to the table. She sat down and gestured to the chair beside her. “This looks wonderful.”
Kate sat and tapped her finger on the top of Jessie’s hand. “Don’t think I’m going to forget what I was saying.”
“I can’t think of any place I’d rather be than lying in our bed with you in my arms watching the flames dance in the fireplace,” Jessie said quietly.
“You made it so I was so comfortable I�
�d fall asleep,” Kate said, stroking Jessie’s arm as she sipped her coffee.
“Now you’re giving me credit for predicting the future,” Jessie said with a laugh. She bit into the biscuit and made a small groan of approval. “They never taste like this when Sam makes them.”
“Well, if I can’t bake better than your trail cook, Hannah Schroeder will have my hide. She spent all of last summer teaching me how.”
Jessie grinned. “Lucky for me.”
“You let me sleep when you knew I wanted to do something altogether different last evening,” Kate said accusingly, although she smiled tenderly.
“You needed to sleep, love,” Jessie said quietly. If she had her way, Kate would not be up now cooking breakfast for her when it wasn’t necessary. She was used to eating with the men at the bunkhouse or doing for herself. She didn’t expect Kate to do it.
Kate narrowed her eyes. “You did plan it.”
“Not planned, exactly. I just wanted you to be warm and comfortable in case you were tired.” Jessie toyed with Kate’s fingers. “Besides, in another month we’ll not need the fire at night, and I didn’t want to miss an opportunity to lie close with you underneath the covers.”
“We don’t need an excuse to lie together, cold or warm, day or night.” Kate stood and walked round behind Jessie’s chair. She draped her arms around her neck and leaned down, her mouth close to Jessie’s ear. “I bet the bed is still warm from last night. The sun isn’t that high yet.”
Jessie leaned back, pillowing her head between Kate’s breasts, and closed her eyes. She shivered as Kate’s hands brushed down her chest and inside her vest. “There might be something sinful about laying abed when it’s time to be working.”
“As hard as you work, I’m sure an hour would be forgiven.” Kate opened the top button on Jessie’s shirt and stroked her chest. The skin there was warm, silky soft, and in her mind’s eye she saw the tanned triangle between Jessie’s breasts. She had always loved how unconcerned Jessie was about the things that her mother had taught Kate were of great importance, and yet had seemed to matter so little. Jessie didn’t hide her skin from the sun, and in the summer, she tanned a beautiful gold. Kate loved to follow that sun-kissed path down Jessie’s throat until it blended with the smooth cream of her breasts. She traced her fingers along that route now, dipping beneath Jessie’s undershirt to cup a small, firm breast.
