by Tess LeSue
“You need help washing your back?” he asked, when he’d finished her hair.
She gave him a regretful look. “I don’t think we have time.” They both knew what it would lead to. His hands would curve up her back and over her shoulders, they’d slide down along her ribs and around to her breasts; they’d slip under the water to follow the line of her hips . . .
The water sloshed as she twisted to face him. “Tomorrow,” she promised, rising from the water to kiss him. He couldn’t quite stop himself from reaching out to cup her breast as they kissed. His palm slid against her wet skin. “Tomorrow,” she sighed, “when all of this is over, I’ll bathe you.”
He groaned at that.
Maybe tomorrow she’d tell him about the time she’d watched him bathe in the lean-to of Mrs. Bulfinch’s hotel, about how she’d lusted after him as she watched the water running down his long, hard body . . .
“It’s going to be a long night,” he sighed.
Yes. In more ways than one.
37
“LOOKS LIKE THESE are your last days in Moke Hill, eh, boy?” Hec said as he clipped the end off a fresh cigar.
As usual, the boy didn’t answer him. And, as always, it annoyed Hec. He’d be glad to get rid of the kid. Not because he’d been trouble, because in fact he’d been quite the opposite: unnaturally obedient. He moved through the place as silent as an Indian, doing everything he was told. But it didn’t matter how obedient he seemed; Hec always felt like the boy was mocking him. He didn’t trust the little bastard. He was too clever by half; he grasped things long before any of these other idiots did. Not that being smarter than this lot was hard. Hec gave the Koerner brothers and Wendell a disgusted look. They were the most woolly-headed backcountry louts he’d ever met.
Hec himself was from Königsberg in Prussia, which in his opinion was the seat of civilization. His was the bloodline of the Teutonic Knights, and he’d always had a sense of his own destiny. It was destiny that had brought him to the frontier, and it was destiny that had made him all but lord of Moke Hill. These weak-blooded Americans were no match for a Teuton. One day he’d go back to Prussia like a conquering hero, his pockets stuffed with gold. He’d show those sniffers back home who never thought he’d amount to anything. He’d show the old man in particular. Hec surveyed his dusty kingdom through the open window. His old man had never presided over anything like this, he thought smugly. He had no idea of the fortune his son was amassing here on the frontier. Once Hec added Blunt’s claim to his collection, he’d be richer than Midas. Then he could go home, with the shine of gold lighting his way. Hec certainly had no intention of staying here with these cowhands for the rest of his days, in this godforsaken dirt bowl. These idiots didn’t even know where Prussia was. He’d asked Kipp once, and the dunce had hazarded a guess it was somewhere just northeast of Kansas. That was what he was dealing with.
“Wendell, why don’t you tell the kid the good news?” Hec said, lighting his cigar and giving it a strong suck. He savored that first fragrant draw and watched the kid carefully. He hoped the news upset the little bastard. He was too composed for a kid his age; he deserved a kick or two in the guts. “Go on. You tell him who else he’s going to see when his momma comes for supper.”
Was it his imagination or did he see a ripple of unease? It was hard to tell. The boy had none of his father’s looseness of manner. Leonard Blunt was as transparent as a sheet of glass. He liked to think of himself as a smooth operator, but he was nothing but a cheap charlatan. Anyone with half a brain knew it the minute they met him. His own son, this silent kid, had known. Hec had seen the way the kid winced when his father spoke, and he’d seen the banked rage when Leonard had given the kid over as security. You’ve got to know I’ll be back for my own son, the slippery eel had said as he slid out the door. Hec hadn’t known any such thing. And never would now, as the eel had gone and died within days of sliding out the door. The useless waste of a man made things difficult even in death. His magnificent lode of gold was now the property of his distant widow, thanks to that dead idiot, and the judge was ferocious in refusing to let Hec have the boy here act as her intermediary and sign it over.
That goddamn crazy old judge. Hec had tried to have the old bastard killed a dozen times, but he was proving to be indestructible. Speaking of the old buzzard, he should be here any moment. Hec checked his fob. It was nearly time for the show to begin. Hec was looking forward to it. Life could be monotonous here in Moke Hill, and a man took his entertainment where he could.
“Go on, Wendell. Tell the boy,” he barked. “We don’t have all night.” To his satisfaction, Wendell jumped to obey.
“Your ma has gone and got you a new pa,” Wendell told the kid.
Aha. Now that got a reaction. The kid’s head whipped around, and his bright blue eyes fixed on Wendell. He was tall for a kid, almost Wendell’s height, and he seemed even taller as he stared into Wendell’s eyes. He was a haughty boy, full of that eastern breeding Blunt liked to brag about. He might have been a blood prince, the way he carried himself. Hec smirked to see Wendell’s discomfort.
“What are you talking about?” the kid said. His accent grew even colder and more clipped than usual.
Hec puffed on his cigar. He knew it. The kid was up to something. Hec could tell by the tension in the kid’s body and by the sharpness of his gaze. This was more than a kick in the guts. Something was ticking away up there in the kid’s fancy mind. He could tell.
Hec didn’t trust quiet people. They were always trying to screw you. And it wasn’t hard to work out how this kid might screw him. Leonard Blunt had one of the richest gold claims in Moke Hill. If Hec had been in the kid’s position, he wouldn’t have been signing away the rights to it without a fight. It didn’t take a genius to know he must have been scheming all these months, trying to find a way to keep hold of the gold. Which was exactly why Hec had no intention of letting the little weasel anywhere near his mother until the deal was done. He wasn’t about to let the kid convince the woman to keep the land. It was Hec’s land and Hec’s gold.
He was concerned enough about this new husband acting up without having the kid involved too.
“Your mother remarried,” he said bluntly, still watching the kid’s reaction.
“What do you mean?” The kid’s face had drained of blood.
Of course it had. Now he had to reckon with a stepfather taking his gold too. And a brute of a stepfather, by the look of it. Hec smirked. Now you know how it feels, you little bastard, to have people putting their grabby hands on your property.
“She can’t have!” the kid cried. “She wouldn’t have.”
“Show him the paper,” Hec ordered Wendell.
Wendell handed the boy a ragged news page. “She advertised for one. And she got one.”
“Because these idiots lost her between New York and Independence,” Hec growled, “and she had a chance to get ideas into her head.”
“Slater don’t want the gold,” Wendell said quickly. “He’s got land of his own in Oregon. He says he’ll sign the papers and they’ll be on their way.”
Hec laughed. “You’re more of an idiot than I thought,” he said, “if you think he’s signing away a claim as big as this as easily as all that.”
The boy was staring at the ad in the newspaper, growing as white as milk. Hec felt a savage satisfaction. Think you can take my gold, you little bastard? Looks like you’ve got more than just me to reckon with now. Looks like you’ve got some inbred backwoodsman as legal owner of your claim now. Shove that up your superior eastern ass.
Hec couldn’t have put into words the rage he felt at the boy’s composure, at his patrician manners and fine accent. Leo moved through the world like he belonged in it, like he owned it, while Hec had always had to fight for a seat at the table. It made a man bitter.
“They just want the boy back,” Wendell was wittering.
“And they’ll get him.” Hec met the boy’s gaze. He looked shaken. As well he should. “Provided everyone behaves themselves.”
There was a brisk knock at the door.
“That’ll be the judge. Let him in, boy.”
Obedient as ever, the boy did as he was bid, the newspaper dangling limply from his hand.
“Ah, Leo,” the judge said as he came in, “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Of course he’s here,” Hec growled. “He’s the whole reason we’re here.”
The judge ignored him. “I want you to go down and see if Barker can get Peanut one of those pickled sow’s ears.” Peanut was the judge’s ridiculous Mexican dog. It looked like a hairless rat.
“He’s not going anywhere,” Hec snapped. “Get it yourself.”
The judge’s snapping little eyes fixed on Hec. He was the picture of a mean old turtle. “I’m too old to be up and down those stairs again.”
Hec scowled at him and reached over to yank the raw hemp rope that hung in the corner. Barker had pretentions but no actual class. This place was like a parody of a dining room. It was all kind of there, but in raw form. The walls were unpainted timber, complete with knotholes, the furniture was so unfinished it gave you splinters, and the bell pull was just a hemp rope dangling in the corner. Yanking it set off an unholy clattering in the hall below.
“Dinner ain’t ready yet,” Barker yelled up the stairs. “You said seven!”
Hec snapped his fingers at Leo.
“The judge wants one of those sow’s ears for Peanut,” the kid called down.
They heard Barker grunt.
“You’re a good lad,” the judge said, lowering himself into the chair at the head of the table.
“Get,” Hec ordered him. “That’s my chair.”
“Not now it isn’t.”
He was as mean as a whore with the clap. “It’s my meeting,” Hec told the judge. Then he reached over and grabbed the table, yanking it sideways, so the judge was now sitting at the side of the table and not the head. Chairs went flying.
“You’re a small man, Hec Boehm,” the judge told him, his beaky little mouth forming a sneer. Peanut yapped, its bulgy black eyes looking like they’d pop right out of its rodent little head.
“I’m bigger’n you, so watch your mouth.”
“Leo,” the judge called the boy over. “Hold Peanut while I work.” He thrust the little rat into the boy’s arms.
“He ain’t staying,” Hec warned. “Kipp ’n Carter are taking him next door.”
“Peanut can go with him. He likes Leo.” The judge had a folder, which he laid on the table. Then he fussed with his ink well and quill. “But if anything happens to my dog, I’ll disembowel the lot of you.”
“We’ll take care of him, judge,” Carter promised. The idiot made the mistake of trying to pet the rat and got bit.
“Don’t touch him!” the judge ordered. “You know he only likes Leo.”
They didn’t have fools like these in Prussia, Hec fumed. Look at the men he was surrounded with. The Blunt woman was going to come in and see a bunch of idiots bleeding and sniping, and then she was going to sit down on a splintery chair at a crooked table and have to make conversation with a mean old turtle, while this hairless rat barked in the next room. It didn’t fit Hec’s vision of the night at all. She was supposed to come in and be impressed. Intimidated.
As Carter stanched the bleeding and the judge polished his spectacles, Wendell and Kipp tried to put the chairs back in order. Hec stood at the head of the table. The new head of the table. Which now conveniently faced the door.
“I’ve written up the contract.” The judge handed it to him.
“You’ll have to rewrite it,” Hec snapped. “The woman went and got herself married.”
The judge peered over his spectacles. “Did she now? Well, that changes things.”
“No,” Hec corrected him, “it doesn’t. It doesn’t change anything at all.”
“The fellow might not want to sell.”
“Carter,” Hec snapped at the elder Koerner brother.
Carter took his gun out of his holster and pointed it at the boy.
“He’ll sell,” Hec said grimly. “As soon as he sees that.”
“If you accidentally shoot my dog, I’ll have you strung up from the nearest tree,” the judge said calmly. Then he cocked his head. “You know, the new husband might not care if he loses a stepson. He’s less of a bargaining chip than he was.”
“Then I’ll have Kipp point a gun at her.”
The kid flinched at that. Interesting. He was a mother’s boy, was he? Hec filed that away. It might be useful.
The judge looked disdainful. “He can always get another wife. He can’t get another claim like this one.”
“From what Wendell says, he’s fond of the woman.”
The judge’s small black eyes glinted. “He’s not too bright, then? That will help.”
“Change the contract.”
The judge dipped his nib into the ink. “What’s the fellow’s name?”
“Slater,” Wendell supplied. “Matthew Slater.”
The nib drew a harsh line through Georgiana’s name and replaced it with Matt’s.
38
THEY WERE AN incongruous pair as they crossed the dusty street, she in her fine blue satin gown, with its ridiculously wide skirts, and he in his fringed buckskins.
“You look exactly like the kind of man I advertised for,” Georgiana told him as they stood in the shadow of the saloon.
He smiled tightly. “Let’s hope I can be exactly the kind of man who gets us all out of here in one piece.” He held the swinging doors open for her.
She took a deep breath and stepped through.
The room fell quiet. Mokelumne Hill had never seen a lady like her, judging by the expressions on these men’s faces. The proprietor just about tripped over himself escorting them upstairs.
“Hec’s secured the finest private room in our establishment for your dining pleasure,” he said, tripping over both his words and his feet. “Just this way.”
It took all of Georgiana’s courage to keep her spine straight and her knees from knocking as the door was flung open and she came face-to-face with the monster who had her son.
He was exactly what she’d expected. A bullish, none-too-bright-looking beast, crammed into a suit that was several years out of date and a size or two too small. The room was cramped and stank of cigar smoke, sawdust and boiled meat.
“Welcome,” the bull said, gesturing for them to enter. His features were too small for his big, square head, and were crammed into the middle of his face in a manner that disconcerted Georgiana. She felt Matt take her hand. She held on to it for dear life. She couldn’t see her son anywhere in the room.
“We’re glad you could join us,” Boehm told them. There was a low kind of animal intelligence in his small eyes. “I thought we’d eat before we did business, like civilized people.”
There was nothing civilized about this farce. The bareness of the room reflected the bareness of the pretense. There wasn’t so much as a tablecloth, and the cutlery was made of speckled tin, but Boehm acted like he was presiding over a grand affair.
Georgiana relied on her years of social training to act like she was indeed at a grand dinner. And, somehow, they got through the farce.
“It’s been a pleasure taking care of your boy,” Boehm told her as he sawed through the great slab of gray meat on his plate. This was the first mention of why they were really there.
Georgiana flinched at the mention of Leo. From the corner of her eye, she saw Matt go still. He hulked at the table, mountainous as ever, silently trying to pass as a simple backwoodsman. She saw Boehm watching him closely, gauging his temperament. The judge was also watchful, but he seemed to treat it all
like a night at the theater. He gummed at his food, his black eyes snapping with malice and mirth as they flicked back and forth between the players. Georgiana couldn’t wait to get away from these malignant people.
“Leo?” Georgiana’s voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “He’s well? I was hoping he’d be here . . . ”
Boehm smiled. He might have meant it to be reassuring, but actually, he just looked like he wanted to eat her. “Come now, Mrs. Bl . . . Slater,” he corrected himself. “This is no place for a boy. He’s eating in the kitchen with the Koerners.”
“But he’s well?” Her voice cracked again.
She revised her earlier impression of him. He didn’t look like a bull at all. He looked like an alligator. The more he smiled, the stronger the resemblance grew.
“You won’t recognize him,” the horrid man said, his tongue swiping gravy from his lip. “The frontier air agrees with him. He gets bigger every day. But, of course, he does miss his mother.”
“I miss him,” Georgiana said, a touch desperately. “I would so like to see him . . . ”
“Of course.” His knife screeched against the tin plate.
Georgiana’s stomach turned. She didn’t know how she managed to force the food down. Under the table, Matt’s foot found hers. He kept his eyes fixed on his plate, as his boot rubbed reassuringly against her ankle. It kept her calm.
And she needed to stay calm, because Hec Boehm was in the mood to prolong her torture. After the foul boiled meat came dessert. It was a sludgy trifle, complete with yellowing cream that had dried into a cracking crust. He tried to get her to eat two helpings as he and the judge regaled them with stories about the growth of Moke Hill. A lot of the stories seemed to involve people getting shot.
Just when she thought she might start screaming, Wendell cleared all the plates away, dumping them unceremoniously in a pail and hauling them downstairs, and Hec decided he was in a mood for business.
“You don’t talk much, do you, Mr. Slater?” Hec said, suddenly turning his attention to Matt.
