The Duchess and Desperado

by Laurie Grant

  “Hold it in both hands—you’ll need both hands to steady it,” he said, stepping behind her. “Now raise it...and sight down that barrel. That’s it, Duchess.” His drawling voice was just inches from her right ear, causing her neck to tingle. “Now, cock the hammer-that’s this thing up here—and you’re ready to shoot. Keep your eye on that tin can yonder, the one in the middle, and just squeeze the trigger....”

  She did as he instructed, and the resultant reverberating explosion was so loud in her ear—and the jolt of the pistol against her hands so unexpected—she nearly dropped the Colt in fright. When she managed to open her eyes again, she saw a puff of dust rising from the ground well to the right of the last can, nowhere near the center one she had been aiming for.

  “I reckon I forgot to mention about the way she’d kick,” Morgan admitted. “Now try again.”

  Her next effort was even more laughable than the first, though she was more ready for the recoil of the pistol this time.

  “Let me help you a little, Duchess,” he murmured, coming closer behind her and reaching around her on both sides to wrap his larger hands around hers. This brought his chest and arms in close contact with her back and arms, and his cheek against the side of her head.

  She shivered as his beard-rough cheek caught at strands of her hair. He smelled of horse and leather. Couldn’t he feel the way her pulse immediately raced into a full gallop? But he seemed oblivious to anything but the lesson as he said, “Now, keep one eye open, Duchess, and just squee-eeze that trigger....”

  That shot was better, at least, they hit the far right can, though she’d still been aiming at the center one. She heard a tinny clunk as it rocketed up from the stone it had been sitting on, then fell back against it.

  “Don’t worry, Duchess, we’ll make you a deadeye shot yet. For a Britisher, anyway,” he promised into her hair. “Keep trying.”

  Lord, his nearness made it so she could barely brearhe, let alone shoot accurately, but the honor of England was at stake, so she fired again and again, until on her sixth shot she finally hit the edge of the can and caused it to jump a couple of inches into the air.

  She wanted to jump and whoop like a wild Indian, but he merely said calmly, “That’s better, Duchess. Now I have to show you how to reload, ’cause you’re outa bullets.”

  He did, and then he set up the cans again before taking up his position behind her, steadying her hand for another six shots. This time she hit the target three times out of the six, once squarely in the middle of a can, and came close to the other three.

  After she reloaded under his supervision, he made no move to come closer, and realizing she was now on her own, she raised the pistol and shot. She hit only one can, but as she turned and saw him give an approving gesture, she felt as triumphant as if she’d been given a trophy.

  Just then Morgan took the gun from her and, without a word of explanation, sighted down the barrel and fired at something off to their left, twice as far away as the cans.

  “What was that?” she asked, startled. All she had seen was some grass rustling before he fired.

  “Jackrabbit,” came his laconic explanation. “Now we’ll have meat for dinner instead of just beans.”

  Load. Aim. Fire. Load. Aim. Fire. Her hands and arms ached, her head throbbed and the ground at her booted feet was littered with empty shells by the time Morgan decided they’d better quit and make dinner, but Sarah hardly noticed her aches as she strode back to camp. She was filled with a new feeling of confidence. I can do this. I can hold my own, and I will survive.

  She was not allowed to rest on her laurels, however. “You didn’t do half bad—for a woman,” he teased as he built up the fire in the gathering dusk. She looked away while he gutted and skinned the rabbit, until he had it spitted and roasting over the fire.

  “Now let’s see how you are at biscuits. That ought to come naturally to any female.”

  She shot him a rueful grin. “No fair, Morgan. I wasn’t allowed in the kitchen at Malvern Hall when I was a little girl, except on rare occasions. But if you ever need to know how to pour tea gracefully or make your curtsy to the queen, I’m an expert.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Now you watch how I do this, ’cause you’re going to make the breakfast biscuits.” The biscuits he made were fluffy and light, and they ate them slathered with the jelly they’d bought at Socrates’ store, along with the roasted jackrabbit. She had to admit the rabbit was tasty, though anything was palatable when one was this hungry!

  “We’ll reach Castle Rock tomorrow, with any luck,” he murmured, leaning back against his saddle as the light faded in the draw. “The Denver and Rio Grande railroad stops there, and we ought to be able to ride a fair distance toward the New Mexican border on it. Duchess, I’m going to turn in,” he said, covering his mouth to hide a yawn. “If you wanted to go a little ways down the draw and wash, I reckon I’d be close enough to holler awake if you needed anything.” He sank back against the saddle and pulled his blanket up over him.

  Sarah was a bit nonplussed, for she had looked forward to talking more. She’d planned to ask Morgan how he thought she could improve her shooting, if he knew how big a town Castle Rock was, what he planned to do with his life after she went back to England.... But now his eyes had drifted shut, so she might as well go have a wash.

  Maybe the duchess believed he was asleep, but his body knew better. Morgan could still feel the imprint of her shoulders against his chest, and the softness of her hair as he’d helped her with her aim. He kept savoring the joyful sound of her pleased laughter and the sparkling blue of her eyes behind the lenses of her spectacles as she’d struck her target—first with his help, and then without. He’d gotten hard just watching her delicately pulling the meat off the rabbit leg with her even white teeth surrounded by those kissable lips, and he stayed hard now as he heard the splashing water just a few yards down the draw.

  He imagined each step of her washing in excruciating detail. his groin aching. First she’d unbutton her shirt, then pull down her chemise and expose proud breasts surmounted by nipples that were doubtless as rosy and perfect as her lips.... She’d take the cloth and soap and wet them, then work up a lather before rubbing the cloth over her neck and shoulders and the hollow of her throat....

  She’d probably dry herself, and put her chemise back on before shedding the trousers that had so perfectly outlined the length of her legs and the curve of her bottom during the day. Then she’d slip off her pantalets, and lather up the cake of soap again....

  He groaned and struck the ground with his fist in frustration, causing Rio, tethered a few feet away, to nicker in inquiry. Damnation! That soap wasn’t the only thing getting lathered, he thought, feeling beads of sweat break out on his forehead as he heard her humming snatches of some tune.

  He wanted nothing better than to throw off that blanket, get up and walk down the draw and fill his eyes with the sight of her. Then he’d fill his hands with her—and his mouth—before sinking his aching flesh into her sweetness.

  He’d get up and go to Sarah right now if he thought she’d welcome his caresses—but she’d made it very clear she was interested only in having him help her join her lover in Santa Fe. A duchess wasn’t for the likes of him.

  But dear God how on earth am I going to survive this kind of temptation on a daily basis? How am I going to take Sarah Challoner all the way to Santa Fe without touching her?

  It wasn’t her fault that it had been weeks—or was it months?—since he’d had a woman. Lately he’d been so busy running from the law that he hadn’t given the matter much thought. But once he’d hired on with the duchess—especially now that he was alone with her day and night—he’d thought of little else. Damn him for a randy fool!

  He’d better slip away the first chance he got—maybe while they were waiting for the train in Castle Rock—and find himself a whore. Maybe after he’d spent his lust between the legs of a woman who satisfied men for a living he’d be able t
o be around Sarah without aching for her—at least for a while!

  Chapter Seventeen

  The biscuits she made the next morning were not, to put it mildly, an outstanding success. Before baking, they had looked oddly gray, but Sarah hoped they’d be better when they had baked. But the finished products had not looked a whole lot more appealing, and Morgan eyed them suspiciously when he came back to the campfire from washing up. He ate one, but after the first bite he put the leftover beans back on to warm up.

  The biscuit she bit into tasted like paste and sank to the pit of her stomach like a stone. Her eyes rose to Morgan’s, and she saw that he was watching her with some amusement.

  “Not very palatable, are they? It’s all right, you don’t have to spare my feelings,” she commented ruefully. “I did warn you I hadn’t any experience, you know.”

  “Aw, you’ll get better, Duchess. It just takes some practice. Maybe corn bread would be easier. Besides, with any luck we’ll be traveling by train for a spell after we get to Castle Rock, and we can eat at the railway cafés.”

  “That’s not much better,” she said, rolling her eyes, “if the ones I’ve been in on the way to Colorado are anything to judge by. The food was so dreadful that after the first couple of days I had Celia obtain a picnic lunch for us at the hotel every morning when we departed for another city. But the train we took from Kansas City to Denver had a restaurant car, so that wasn’t too bad.”

  “I don’t reckon we’ll be finding restaurant cars on the Denver and Rio Grande line. It’s mainly just for carryin’ miners to and from the fields. I’m just not sure how far south they’ve got the line built. I’m hopin’ to go as far as possible by rail, to spare your mare.”

  For once, Sarah didn’t protest that Trafalgar had as much endurance as Morgan’s stallion. After a couple of days on the trail, even a tenderfoot like herself could see that the rangier pinto was better suited to living off the land than her thoroughbred, though Trafalgar had coped very well so far. But she was well aware of her mount’s weariness at the end of each day’s ride. How long before the sleek flanks became thin, and her gleaming coat dull?

  They reached Castle Rock by noon, and found the train station easily enough, for there was not much to the town beyond the train station itself, a livery, a saloon and a small hotel that looked brand-new. But when they inquired about the next train south, they were told that they’d just missed it by an hour, and there wouldn’t be another until tomorrow.

  Sarah heard Morgan curse under his breath at the news. “Looks like we’re going to have t’ keep ridin’ a ways, then, after we have a bite to eat at the hotel yonder,” he told her. “We could travel to another station or two down the line before we meet up with the next train. It ain’t smart to be stayin’ anyplace if we don’t have to. Close up, it’s obvious you’re a woman, Duchess—we’d be easy marks if anyone is trailin’ us.”

  Looking down at her rough shirt and her trousered legs, Sarah smothered an unladylike snort of disbelief. “I? Surely you jest, cowboy! I look just like another disreputable—ah. what do you call them?—drifter, at least as long as my braid stays tucked under my hat.”

  His eyes raked over her from head to toe, lingering at her mouth, her breasts, her waist and hips. “No, you don’t. Not to any man who really looks.”

  The remark should have made her want to slap him for his impertinence, but after a couple of days of feeling dirty, travel worn and quite unfeminine, his words had the bracing effect of a tonic. She felt herself flushing with pleasure.

  “And there’s your accent, too, Duchess. Anyone who hears you is going to remember speaking to a blond Englishwoman.”

  “I won’t say a word if I don’t have to,” Sarah promised.

  She knew it was wise to ride on, but she sighed inwardly at the prospect of more hours in the saddle. For the past two days she’d been sore in places no lady should be sore, but she wasn’t about to mention it.

  “I wish there was some place we could purchase some oats for Trafalgar and the other horses.” She felt guilty at the prospect of eating a civilized meal when her mare had only the sparse buffalo grass to crop.

  “The livery’d likely sell us some.”

  After a surprisingly good meal of fried chicken and mashed potatoes at the hotel, Sarah felt almost cheerful about the prospect of an afternoon in the saddle.

  When they came out to the hitching post where they had left the horses, however, she noticed Trafalgar stood with her off forefoot canted so it did not fully touch the ground, and when Sarah tried pushing her over, she resisted putting her full weight on that foot.

  With a sinking feeling, Sarah stooped and picked up the mare’s foot, looking for a lodged stone, but didn’t find one. Trafalgar snorted nervously, flinching as her mistress ran her hand assessingly over the mare’s slender leg. As Sarah had feared, she found increased warmth in the cannon.

  Her heart sinking, Sarah untied the mare and led her in a small circle, watching the mare dipping her head every time the near forefoot hit the ground, then raising it again when the off one struck. The sinking feeling was replaced by the cold chill of guilt. Had she been oblivious to Trafalgar favoring the leg those last few miles into town? Ben would have given her such a tongue-lashing, even though he had only been her groom!

  “She’s lame, Morgan. We can’t go on any farther today,” she said, then waited for him to say I told you so, I told you a highbred beast like that wasn’t capable of hard travel. This was only the third day, and they hadn’t even reached the tougher mountain terrain yet.

  But Morgan wasn’t an I-told-you-so man, it seemed. “Reckon that could happen to any horse,” he said. “I recollect a time when Rio pulled up lame once, after we’d had a hard run from a band of Kiowa. I expect we better get rooms in the hotel for the night, and settle the horses at the livery. We can wrap your mare’s leg, and maybe she’ll be right as rain in the morning. At least she’ll be all right to load onto a stock car of the train. This afternoon we can ride double on Rio out of town a ways, and get in some more target practice for you. They’ll be callin’ you the ‘Deadeye Duchess’ before the end of this trip, sure ’nough.”

  Sarah could have kissed him for his easy acceptance of the situation, but knew such an action wouldn’t fit with her disguise, so she contented herself with whispering, “Thank you, Morgan.”

  “As of now, boy,” he said with a wry twist of his lips, “you better call me Jake—Jake Faulkner, if you have to talk at all. You never know who knows Morgan Calhoun as an outlaw.”

  “All right—Jake.”

  Leaving Rio hitched at the rail, they went to see Sarah’s mare and the packhorse safely bestowed at the livery. Then, after giving detailed directions to the liveryman about Trafalgar’s care, they returned to the hotel to reserve their rooms.

  “Afraid you fellas’ll have to bunk together, Faulkner,” the grizzled proprietor informed them cheerfully. “Y‘see, quite a few gents missed their train like you fellas did. But if you was of a mind to play some poker, they’re plannin’ on a big game at the saloon after supper tonight, ’bout eight.”

  Sarah watched as a speculative grin spread over Morgan’s face. “Yeah, I’d be interested,” he said. “My bespectacled young friend here, he ain’t much for cards, but you can catch up on your sleep, eh?” He elbowed Sarah in the ribs, and she nodded, careful not to speak.

  “Sony we couldn’t get two rooms, Duchess,” he said when they had climbed the stairs and stood inside the small room. “I imagine you’re missin’ your privacy.”

  She shrugged. “It’s no matter. I suppose I’m getting rather used to having you around. But at least there’s a bed....” Her voice trailed off and she stared up at Morgan.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll sleep on the floor,” he assured her.

  “Oh, Morgan, isn’t there a truckle bed under it or something? It doesn’t seem right for you to have to sleep on the hard floor....”

  “Naw, don’t worry about it, D
uchess. It can’t be any harder than the ground, and I’m used to that. I intend to stay late at that poker game anyway, and I’ll probably come back so whiskeyed up I won’t know if I’m sleeping on rocks or feathers,” he told her with a grin. “Now, let’s get to your shooting lesson, Duchess.”

  “You’re certainly going to a lot of trouble just to go play cards,” Sarah observed as she watched Morgan shaving. He’d already paid for hot bathwater and a hip bath to be brought up to their room, and gallantly allowed her to use it first while he went to check on the horses.

  She was dressed again when he came back, and had pretended great interest in the view of the street from their window while he’d undressed and gotten into the tub, and again when he’d climbed out and dried himself. He’d put his denims back on, but this time with a clean shirt.

  His eyes met hers in the mirror for a brief second before he looked back at his cheek while his razor scraped over it, but he made no comment about her probing remark. Instead, he said, “I’ll probably be late, but I have the key. You stay right here, and don’t you open up the door to anyone knocking, you hear?”

  Sarah pulled her spectacles off so she could no longer clearly see his face. “You needn’t speak to me as if I’m an infant,” she said with a sniff. “I believe I do have some common sense.”

  “Sorry, Duchess, I didn’t mean to,” he said, unruffled. “You get some sleep, now. It’s gonna be a long day tomorrow.”

  Damn him, she could no longer see his grin, but she could hear it in his voice. “Won’t it be a long day for you, too?” she asked. “Perhaps you’d do well to heed your own advice, and not chance losing what little money we have,” she retorted. “But as I’ve no desire to see you stumbling back in here drunk, I’ll retire early.”

  “Don’t worry, I reckon I can play poker better than anyone at this particular game.” Then he added, his tone carefully neutral, “You know, you’re soundin’ a mite peevish.”