by Carol Arens
If she survived until morning, she would think more about it. Just now, the events of the day had worn her through.
She huddled over the man and tried to relax, but she was more than half-certain that eyes peered at her from the brush.
Chapter Three
Lantree scented a woman.
He cracked open his eyes but saw things through a dark blur. Yep, his surroundings had been doused in oil. Objects swayed like pond grass underwater.
Apparently his mind was still feeling the effects of the blow to his head, which was to be expected. In all likelihood the woman whose face swam in his smoky vision was not real.
That didn’t keep him from finding her interesting.
She was asleep with her face nodding over him. It seemed that his head was lying in her lap and they were both huddling under some sort of covering.
No one had ever reported that hallucinations came with smells, but he breathed in the sweet scent of femininity.
He didn’t mind that, not one bit. Neither did he mind that the vision had the face of an angel. Long dark lashes rested on high cheekbones. Her eyes moved under her eyelids as though she were dreaming. Pretty lips lay still in slumber. If the hallucination awoke and smiled what would her mouth look like?
Even more, what would it taste like if he could lift his head high enough to give those slumbering lips a kiss?
He wouldn’t try though, because he knew that doing so would make the vision disappear into a puff of forgotten dream.
As much as he wanted to indulge in this fantasy, his head hurt like hell and his stomach churned. He needed to close his eyes.
What a shame though, to wake tomorrow and not recall her.
Regretfully, he closed his eyes and gave himself over to oblivion.
* * *
The lilting melody of “The Morning Suite” from Peer Gynt woke him. It was beautiful, but distressing. Heavenly music could only indicate that he had died from the blow to his head.
Odd, he hadn’t felt it to be a life-or-death wound.
He opened his eyes to see the first rays of daylight touching the treetops. He listened, afraid to move or breathe...but he was breathing.
While dead men might listen to divine music upon fluffy clouds, they did not breathe.
Mortal pain shot through his head. His pulse throbbed and he ached all over. He was most certainly alive.
But there was music.
He sat up, stifling a groan.
He glanced about, looking for the source of the melody.
It had been an age since he had heard a symphonic piece, another lifetime. Only now did he realize how much he’d missed it. Before the epidemic, Lantree had been a frequent visitor to the theater. There had been few things he enjoyed more than sitting quietly and listening to classical melodies.
He turned his head, and a stabbing pain made him wish he hadn’t...until he saw the figure standing on the rise of the hill, half-hidden among the trees.
A woman bathed in morning light drew her bow over the strings of a violin.
She swayed while she played, her trim figure seeming to be one with the music. While he watched she closed her eyes and turned in a circle, her skirt twirling gently about her long legs.
Sunshine glittered on her lips.
So that was what they looked like when they smiled. The memory of her came back to him now. She was the angel from his dream.
He glanced at the sunlight creeping down the trees. From their branches, birds began to sing along with the violin.
In this instant, life was beautiful...ugliness did not exist.
Losing himself in the moment, he was certain that the melody came from the woman rather than the instrument.
Then a bird screeched. Not a pretty morning coo or a gentle twitter, but a grating on the ears that had to be disturbing the peace for miles around.
The woman lowered her instrument. She pivoted with a scowl.
“Be quiet, Screech! You don’t need to copy every—” Her eyes widened when she saw him. “Oh! Good morning... By George, you don’t look half-bad considering...well, that you were hit by a kettle.”
Beauty incarnate gazed, wide-eyed, at him...so did the young prostitute from the dock.
She hurried down the rise in long strides. She stopped at a large travel trunk and put her violin inside then closed the lid.
He stood up because she was walking toward him now and he wanted to judge how tall she really was.
He was used to women much shorter. The top of her head would neatly tuck under his chin were he holding her in an embrace.
The temptation to get aquatinted in a carnal way was hard to ignore. With her size, he would not have to worry about hurting her during—
He wouldn’t know her that way, of course. He’d taken the Hippocratic oath. It went bone deep in spite of how things had turned out. That bit about doing no harm meant something to him. To consort with such a woman, especially one so new to the trade, would most certainly do her harm.
“Well, to be truthful...” She stood four feet away and she smelled the same as she had last night...sweet and female to the core. “I’m the one who hit you with the kettle.”
He nodded and glanced about the campsite, wondering what had become of his team and wagon.
“I do beg your pardon.” She wrung her hands in front of her. “I thought you were a thief...or worse.”
“Reckon that’s understandable since I did sneak up on you in the dark.”
“Sit down here, mister. Your skin still looks like milk.”
She pointed to a spot beside the long-cold embers of the campfire.
He did feel peaked so he eased down onto the spot.
“Can you eat something?” she asked then hurried toward a pair of saddlebags. She rifled through them, frowning.
“I figure Mike owes me a meal... Oh, here’s some jerked beef, at least.”
The soiled dove knelt before him, looking fresh as morning. Women of her kind tended to look drawn and haggard at this time of day due to being active all night.
“Can you eat some, do you think?” She held the dried beef toward him. “I’d feel ever so much better if you did.”
In spite of how his stomach still felt queasy, he took a bite. It wasn’t half as bad as he feared so he took another.
The relief in her expression made him take a third bite and nod his thanks while he chewed.
With a smile, she sat across from him, her legs tucked beneath her. He couldn’t help but wonder what legs like that would look like in all their bare, long-limbed glory.
For a dollar, he’d be able to find out. If he were another kind of man—one like Mike, say—he would.
Instead, he sighed and wondered.
“It’s not my business and you can say so, but why did you come out here with Mike, that is, why did you leave the safety of town?”
“First of all, I doubt that Coulson is all that safe. But Mike and I had business together. Business which he reneged on.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, that was for the best.”
“I can’t imagine why you would think so.” She reached across the cold fire pit. “Here, turn your head so I can see that lump.”
“It’s not the worst I’ve ever had. I’ll do.”
The young whore broke a piece of the jerky off then leaned sideways to give it to the bird.
“Yummy,” the green-feathered creature said three times while holding the beef in one claw and happily nibbling on it.
“I’ve got to go see to my team and wagon. But wait here, I’ll be back,” he said.
“I’ve already taken care of them. I heard your horses neighing after...after things settled down last night. I brought them here. See, there they are down by the stre
am.”
“You wandered away from the safety of the fire?”
“There wasn’t much help for it unless I wanted to leave your poor beasts unattended.”
“There are wild things out there, miss. You’re lucky you didn’t meet up with any of them.”
“I’d prefer a wild beast to a wild man. When was the last time you heard of a bear stealing a woman’s savings? The same cannot be said of Mike.”
“He is a bad one.” A lecture might be out of line but hell if he could keep himself from giving it. “I’m sorry about your money, miss. Have you spent a long time earning it?”
“I began when I was fourteen.” She sighed, clearly disgusted. “To think of the hours I gave to the single gentlemen of Kansas City. I wore myself out, up all hours, often by candlelight, and all so that miserable creature, Mike, could ride off with what I had earned.”
“There’s more than money you might have lost...your health for one thing.”
“I feel fit as a fiddle, thank you very much.”
“That’s because you are young...and you’ve been lucky with the men you have serviced.”
“Might I point out that they were the lucky ones? I gave them fair exchange for every dollar. Even though I was young I put my heart into what I did.”
“As admirable as that is...you are going to end up sick. Your way of life will kill you.”
“And what do you know about my way of life? We are all but strangers.”
“I saw you yesterday, at the dock sitting on your trunk.”
“Which led you to believe that sitting in God’s glorious country on a trunk lid will lead to illness?”
“Let me show you where it leads.”
Taking her to the Sullied Gully and showing her what her future would be might save her life.
He reached for her hand.
She reached for the kettle.
* * *
The hand reaching for her was nicely formed, the fingers long and rugged.
That did not in any way mean that she was going to allow them to touch her.
Hadn’t she learned at her aunt’s knee and by her mother’s example, that virtue, once given away, could not be regained?
“You,” she said with her fingers solidly gripping the handle of the kettle, “will not show me a single thing unless you want a matching lump on the other side of your skull.”
“What if I pay you? I’ll give you a dollar, just like any other man, for half a day of your time.”
It would take far less time than that for her to mend his shirt. But that would mean him removing it and his attitude was far too familiar as it was. Besides, her needles and thread were at the bottom of her trunk and she did not want to turn her back on him for the time it would take to fish them out.
It was becoming clear that the men of the mountains were a greater danger than the wildlife. Tom had shown a severe lack of judgment. Mike was a thief. And this man whose name she didn’t even know wanted to show her what there was about her life that was going to lead to ruin and death.
He might be delusional from the blow...or he might be insane.
She would be much better off on her own.
“Kindly take your beasts and your goods and leave my campsite.”
“Two dollars then.”
She stared him down hard.
“Three dollars and not a penny more,” he added.
Now he was beginning to tempt her. Three dollars to repair a rip in his shirt...one that was too small to even be seen? And she with not a cent to her name?
“Four dollars and we have a bargain.”
“I’m being robbed.”
“Be that as it may, if you want my services, you will set four dollars beside Screech’s cage and take off your shirt.”
“I’ll keep it on if it’s all the same to you,” he said then dug into his pocket and withdrew four one-dollar bills. He set them beside Screech, who eyed them with flashing eyes.
“How do you expect me to do my job with you still in your clothing?”
“All I want is your time...to help you understand the life a young lady like you can expect to lead if you continue on the way you are.”
“You don’t make much sense. I’m sorry. Your confusion is my fault and I do apologize. Won’t you see a doctor about your head? Here, take back one dollar. It’s only fair since I’m the one who injured you.”
She stood up, brushed a leaf from her skirt and went to fetch the needle and thread. It wouldn’t be easy to find among the many skirts, blouses, petticoats and stockings that Melinda had insisted she bring.
At length, she found a needle and selected a color of thread that, surprisingly, matched his shirt. She threaded the needle while she walked back to her client.
This was not going to be an easy job with him still in the shirt. She only prayed that the rip was not in an inconvenient spot.
“I may have to touch you,” she warned him. “Just keep in mind that this is strictly business. Once I’m finished you will go on your way and I’ll go on mine.”
He gazed at the needle and thread looking perplexed. Had he never had a garment repaired for pity’s sake?
She sat down beside him, running her fingers over the arm seams of his shirt. Not even a loose thread to be worried about.
Clearing her throat she began to yank the shirt from the waistband of his pants. Truly, this could not be more uncomfortable.
“You misunderstand,” he said, his breath seeming to come short and fast. “I only want to talk to you.”
The only decent thing to do was humor the man. Perhaps by talking, he might become more sensible.
She pinned the threaded needle through her collar so as not to lose it.
“Do you often pay for conversation, Mister...?”
“Walker,” he said. “And no, I’ve never paid for it.”
“It’s the blow to your head making you do so, no doubt.” She folded her hands in her lap, ready to do her duty and listen to whatever nonsense he had to spout. “Please, feel free to have your say.”
“Ladies of the night,” he began then cleared his throat. “They lead a hard life...a short life.”
“No doubt that’s true.”
“They meet up with brutal men. If a woman is lucky enough to survive the harsh treatment, she rarely survives the syphilis, gonorrhea and other sexually transmitted diseases.”
Now he had her blushing. How could she not when he spoke so boldly of inappropriate matters?
She half wished she had not accepted his money...and certainly that she had not walloped him in the head.
“I’m sure that’s very sad,” she agreed, hoping that this conversation would turn to a more respectable subject.
“You don’t seem overly worried, but I can assure you the danger is very real.”
“Maybe you’d like to talk about something more pleasant,” she urged.
“I’d like to convince you to earn a living in some other way.”
“Mr. Walker, I’ve never heard of anyone becoming ill over a needle prick... Well, there was Snow White’s mother, she died, but that was a fairy tale.”
“You make light of the problem, but it’s very real.”
She sighed. How could she not? “Sometimes a body just needs a dash of humor. Don’t you agree?”
“I do not. In fact, I’ve got a mind to tie you to a horse, haul you back to town and show you how funny a sick whore is.”
She slid the needle from her collar and pointed it at him.
“I know how to use this. Lay a hand on me and I’ll stitch your fingers together.”
“Damned Hippocratic oath,” he mumbled.
He stood up. From where she sat gazing up, it looked like his head skimmed the tre
etops.
“What an odd thing to say,” she mumbled back.
Insanity was his problem, she decided, not the blow to his head. In some way this was a relief. His behavior was not her fault.
But then again, she was alone in the wilderness with a lunatic.
In a move too swift for her to avoid, he reached down and snatched her arm. He tossed her over his shoulder and began to walk away...somewhere.
Her horse was not saddled. His team was grazing. Did he mean to walk back to Coulson carrying her like a bag of potatoes?
Given his mental state, perhaps he did.
But given her determination not to go anywhere with him... Well, they would see who went where.
She kicked her legs but all she managed to do was cover his face in a blizzard of furious petticoats.
She screamed, having forgotten in the moment that her bird loved nothing more than to join in a ruckus.
Screech screeched. Other birds copied him and soon the branches were alive with alarmed twitters.
“I’m warning you to put me down!”
“This is for your own good,” her captor grumbled.
Apparently, he had forgotten that she still gripped the needle in her hand.
* * *
Something stung him in the rump. It was early in the day for hornets.
He swatted his backside then got stung on the hand.
He spun about, gripping the woman by the knees, while he sought to slap the bug.
Sunshine glinted off something in the soiled dove’s hand. All of a sudden he remembered the needle.
That’s what he got for trying to do a good deed. The same sort of thing had happened to him once when he tried to set the leg of an injured raccoon. He’d been bitten. Infection had been the pay for his effort.
“What the hell, ma’am!” He didn’t believe in cursing before women, but she sliced the needle at him again as he was setting her to her feet. “Damnation!”
“Escaped from bedlam or not, you have no right to accost ladies in the forest!” She backed away from him jabbing the slender weapon at the air.
He did not follow. He rubbed his wounds. Bedlam?
“I warned you what I would do. You should have known that a seamstress would know how to wield a needle.”
