Rooney wiped one hand over his sweaty forehead. “Uh, maybe we could have us a conversation later, over coffee? After Little Miss goes to bed.”
“I am not going to bed!” Manette announced.
Rooney hunched down to where she stood gazing up at him. “Why not? You afeared of ghosts?”
The girl giggled. “No, I’m not.”
Rooney’s voice dropped. “Or maybe spirits or demons that go bump in the dark?”
“N-no. I’m not going to bed because you’re here!”
Rooney straightened. “Well, now, Little Miss, I’m gonna be here for a while.” He shot Jeanne a look.
Jeanne nodded. She wanted Rooney to stay. She was not afraid of being alone at night, but she wanted to talk about Wash.
“Come inside, both of you. I will make supper. And some café.”
Rooney stepped over the threshold into the bunkhouse and snatched off his gray hat. Jeanne pointed to a hook beside the door and waited. She knew the instant he spotted her shotgun, mounted over the door; his head bent slowly and his eyes fastened on her hands.
“Yes,” she said in answer to his unspoken question. “I can shoot it.
Rooney scratched his salt-and-pepper beard. “Oh, I don’t doubt that, Jeanne.”
“What surprises you, then?”
“Just that…well, I didn’t figure you was as self-sufficient as you’re turnin’ out to be. You know, bein’ a French lady from a big city like New Orleans.”
Jeanne turned to stir up the fire in the potbellied stove.
“I am not in New Orleans, now.”
Rooney grunted and plopped onto a weathered straightback chair, then shot up, turned it around and straddled it, folding his hands on the back. Manette clambered onto the adjacent chair and pinned him with a blue-eyed stare. “I want my chair backward, too.”
Rooney laughed, then reversed the chair for her and continued his speculative perusal of Jeanne. She could tell he was studying her. She lifted the skillet onto the stove, and tried to calm the flutters in her stomach. Did he know Wash had been with her last night?
Did he know something about Wash she should know?
She fixed thin, delicate pancakes in the skillet, each one rolled around slivers of hard cheese. Fromagettes she called them. Manette gobbled down seven—seven! Mon Dieu, in six months, her daughter would grow out of any clothes Jeanne could purchase for school.
She poured Rooney’s coffee and made a diluted cup for Manette—mostly milk from Monsieur MacAllister’s cow. Little by little her head drooped onto the table, her eyelids closing.
Jeanne unbuttoned the weed-stained pinafore, wrestled a muslin nightgown over Manette’s head and tucked her under the quilt on the top bunk.
Rooney was washing their plates in the basin of water heating on the stove; the skillet he wiped spotless with a clean scrap of cloth and hung it up on the wall. Then he refilled both cups with the last of the coffee in the speckleware pot and waited for Jeanne to reseat herself at the inverted wooden fruit crate she used as a dining table.
“Manette was most active today,” she remarked. “She will sleep soundly.”
“Meanin’ we can talk now?” Rooney asked from the stove.
Jeanne sighed. “Oui. She will not hear us.”
“Just as well, Jeanne. This is grown-up talk.”
She ignored her coffee and fisted her hands in her lap. “About Wash?”
“Yup. I’ve known Wash a long time. Scouted for him in the army out of Fort Kearney, and when he decided to come back to Oregon to work for the railroad, I came with him. He grew up here, ya know.”
Jeanne studied the man’s sun-lined face. “Where was your home, Rooney?”
“Comanche country. Up around Kansas. Now my home is wherever we travel. See, Wash risked his life to save mine once in a skirmish with the Sioux, and I swore then I’d protect him, no matter where he went.”
“And now he has come back to Smoke River?” Jeanne questioned.
Rooney resumed his place on the reversed chair at the table. “Well, not right away. He had some bad feelings ’bout the place, but by the time he’d hired on with Sykes and the Oregon-Central, he’d pretty much got over it.”
Jeanne felt her entire body go still. “What was ‘it’?”
Now she would find out about the strange reticence she had sensed in Wash from the beginning? About whatever burden he carried inside that colored his sometimes harsh attitude toward her.
“Well, first he was wounded in the War. He spent some awful years in a Confederate prison, and it takes a man some time to feel normal after somethin’ like that. For a long while he was mighty withdrawn, like he’d crawled into a shell.”
Rooney shot her a look. “You understand what I’m talkin’ about? He was all busted up inside.”
“I do understand, yes.” She unknotted her hands and sipped her cooling coffee. “It must have been terrible for him.”
Rooney chuckled, but when she met his gaze, his eyes were dark with pain. “Naw, it got ‘terrible’ lots earlier, before he left Smoke River and joined the army. There was this girl, see. Laura Gannon. She jilted him, ran off with another man right before their weddin’, just before he left for the War. Broke him up somethin’ awful…things pretty much went downhill from there.”
Jeanne wasn’t sure she wanted to hear any more, especially about Laura Gannon. Something close to jealousy pinched her heart.
But Rooney went right on talking. “Wash wasn’t himself for years after that. After he got out of that Yankee prison, he drank a lot and crawled right back into that shell he’d been buildin’. To make a long story short, Jeanne, when the railroad sent him to Smoke River, Wash carried a girl-shaped hole in his heart and a chip on his shoulder the size of a railroad tie.”
Jeanne frowned. “What means ‘chip on his shoulder’?”
Rooney smoothed his hand over his beard. “Means he’s kinda mad at the world and everybody in it. ’Specially women. Attractive women. Like you.”
She sat without speaking for a long time. What could she say? Wash was scarred inside. Likely he did not want involvement with her; he was still too vulnerable.
“I see,” she breathed. “I understand what you are trying to tell me, Rooney. I would guard my heart against this man, but it is too late.”
Rooney just grinned. “Kinda figured that out, Jeanne. Just wanted you to know the why of his behavior. It’s got nothin’ to do with you personal-like.”
“Au contraire. It has everything to do with me. I think Wash has taken a step toward life again, and I think he didn’t expect to. Perhaps he did not even want to. He is a brave man when it comes to being a man—managing his railroad crews, fighting a bad man like Monsieur Montez to protect me.”
“Yeah, you got that right.”
Jeanne swallowed and went on. “But he is perhaps not so brave when it comes to a woman? Is it… I mean, do you think that may come with time?”
“Dunno. It gets complicated when it’s a woman like you, a woman who’s right pretty, sure, but one he really likes underneath.” He swirled the coffee dregs in his cup around and around. “I just plain don’t know.”
“Oh.” She blinked hard to keep the hot tears from spilling over.
“Now, I’ve always been a bettin’ man,” Rooney said. “Can’t hardly walk past a card game or a horse race… I’d ride a hundred miles for a good horse race.”
Afraid her voice would crack, Jeanne just looked at him.
Unexpectedly he reached across the table and clumsily patted her hand. “I’ll tell you this, though—this looks to me like a pretty good race shapin’ up right now. And I’m bettin’ you’re gonna win.”
A shaky laugh escaped her. “A horse race, is it? You mean Wash will run for his shell and I must head him off before he buries himself?”
“Somethin’ like that, yeah. If you choose to.”
She closed her eyes. “Oh, Rooney, I am not skilled at this kind of game. I do not think—”<
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“That’s exactly right,” he interrupted. “You just hold that there, and don’t think.”
Rooney unrolled his pallet in the niche between the wooden wagon and the bunkhouse, stretched out and ran his hand over his eyes. By jingo, he hadn’t done this much talking since his years scaring around the plains with Wash, and then he’d mostly listened. Something about Jeanne just made a man open up.
He rolled over, pulling the wool army blanket up around his chin. That woman made a man feel…bigger than his usual self. And that’s exactly what Wash Halliday needed, something—someone—to grow toward.
He lay perfectly still and gazed up at the bright stars dotting the night sky. “Life gives life,” he murmured, remembering an old Indian chant. God keep you both, and may your days together be good and long upon the earth.
The next thing he knew a shaft of hot sunlight was blinding him. He shrugged out of his bedroll just in time to see Jeanne set off for the stream lugging a bucket. He hoped that meant coffee sometime in the next half hour. Thinking about Wash and the widow Nicolet last night sure hadn’t left time for much shut-eye.
He stayed for coffee with Jeanne, then, because she was short of food, he rode into town for bacon and scrambled eggs at the boardinghouse. After he’d teased Mrs. Rose about her undercooked bacon, he rode out to the rail spur at the Green Valley site.
Wash and his team of Celestials had carved out and graded a gentle slope down the hillside to the valley floor. Amazing what these small, tough men could accomplish working together as a team.
He wished things between a man and a woman could be resolved as efficiently. Maybe Wash should ask his Chinese crew for advice in the courtship department!
Or maybe not, noting how haggard his partner looked this morning. Jaw tight. Eyes like gray thunderheads.
“Mornin’,” Rooney called to him as he emerged from the canyon.
Wash just grunted.
Rooney dismounted and peered over the edge toward the east end. “You figure out your gradients for the steep end of the valley yonder?”
“Nope.”
Rooney smothered a grin. “Distracted, were ya?”
Wash’s stony gaze met his. “Mind your own business.”
“Aw, come on, son. What’s got a burr up your britches on a morning this beautiful?”
“Didn’t sleep much,” Wash snapped. Inside, Rooney exulted. Outside he tried to look sympathetic.
“Had me a fine time with Jeanne and Little Miss last night,” he offered. He lifted the wilted remains of the dandelion chain which still hung around his neck. “Little Miss made me a necklace.”
Wash took a step toward him. “How is Jeanne? Any trouble?”
“Not trouble, exactly. Just a bit of unrest. Jeanne’s anxious to sell her lavender things to the mercantile. She needs the money.”
Wash gave a curt nod of acknowledgment. Rooney waited as long as he could stand it, then said, “Jeanne’s comin’ out to Green Valley around noon today. Bringin’ you…um—” he scrambled to come up with a believable lie “—uh…bringin’ you some lunch.”
“What for?”
“Jes’ bein’ friendly like, you know—”
“I plan to eat in town,” Wash said with a scowl.
“Well, ya damn fool, un-plan it! Won’t hurt you none to be nice to the lady whose valley you’re tearing up for your railroad.”
Wash’s face changed. He stared at Rooney and finally gave a low grunt and another short nod.
Rooney blew out his breath. Well, by damn! He’d better hustle on back to town and catch Jeanne at the mercantile, let her know about the picnic lunch she’d “promised” to bring.
He signed to Wash, mounted and turned the roan toward town. Funny, he didn’t feel a bit of guilt for the falsehood he’d fabricated.
Wash saw his partner touch spurs to his mount and disappear in a cloud of dust. So, Jeanne was coming out and bringing his lunch. Nice gesture, he guessed. At the thought of seeing her again his stomach floated up just under his rib cage and flipped over.
Part of him didn’t want to lay eyes on her. Another larger part wanted to smell her hair and put his hands on her skin. But what the hell would he say to her after their night together?
Judas and Joseph! Sooner or later he’d have to own up to being damn scared.
He snorted and began to tramp back down the valley slope. Scared? That was like describing a thunderstorm as a spring shower. The worst part…
Aw, hell, he couldn’t even say it. The worst part was that he was beginning to recognize that he cared about her; and, not only that, he still wanted her. He wasn’t sure he would ever stop wanting her.
Chapter Sixteen
All that morning Wash thought about seeing Jeanne again. What would he say to her? It felt as if he was watching himself from outside his skin, and what he saw was a man in turmoil. A longing ate at his gut and nibbled away at his spirit, but his fear chewed him up like that rusty plow Jeanne wanted, dragged over a barren field.
He climbed up to the valley rim and scanned the road that stretched toward town. “Never thought of myself as a coward,” he muttered. “Learn something new every day.”
A puff of dust caught his eye, about a mile away; he watched it move toward him. Oh, Lord, it was Jeanne’s gray mare. He couldn’t wait to see her again, hear her voice. He hadn’t stopped thinking about her for the last twenty-four hours.
On the other hand, he wanted to drive her from his thoughts. Hell’s bells, she’d tied him up in knots.
The gray mare halted a good ten yards from where he stood. He studied his boots for a long moment, afraid to look at her. His heartbeat tripled, slamming against his rib cage like the hooves of a wild horse. Not even a Sioux war party evoked a fear like this.
She gave him a half smile. “Hello, Wash.” That was all it took for the war party to attack.
“Jeanne,” he acknowledged. He looked up at her, then wished he hadn’t. A glow of hot sunlight spilled around her shoulders where she sat her horse; her straw hat was tipped down to shade her face, but then she lifted her head and her eyes met his.
The bottom fell out of his belly.
She held up a wicker hamper. “I brought you some lunch. And some coffee.”
His legs started toward her of their own accord. She handed the basket down to him and slipped off the mare into his arms. She smelled good, like soap. He wanted to kiss her so much his chest ached.
“It’s…good to see you,” he managed. The truth was he was stunned at how happy the sight of Jeanne Nicolet made him.
She stepped away from him. “It is awkward, too, is it not?”
She didn’t wait for an answer, but moved past him and pointed across to the opposite side of the valley.
“Over there is my thinking spot. It would be nice for a picnic, no?”
No. The thought of sitting close to her in some shady bower made his hands curl into fists. “Sure,” he found himself answering.
She started off, walking purposefully along the horse trail that skirted the valley rim. He could see she was used to walking; he had to lengthen his stride to keep up with her. He concentrated on the sway of her blue checked skirt and tried to keep his mind off her backside.
“Where is Manette?” he wondered aloud. It was the only thing he could think of to say.
“At the hotel dining room. Rooney is filling her up with strawberry ice cream.”
“Rooney is a good man.”
“Oui. He is a good friend, as well. Manette likes him.”
She didn’t explain, but she didn’t have to. Wash knew his partner must have told Jeanne all about Laura Gannon. He felt completely exposed.
Within ten minutes they had circled the valley rim and all at once Jeanne stepped off the path and led him to a spot where a vine maple had woven itself between two elders to form a sun-dappled trellis.
“Here,” she announced. She reached for the hamper he carried and flipped open the hinged wicker top. Then sh
e bent her head and rummaged in the basket.
Wash tried not to let his eyes linger on her bare neck. He held his breath until spots danced in his vision to avoid inhaling the scent of her hair.
She spread a blue gingham tablecloth over a grassy spot and settled herself on one corner, her legs folded under her skirt. She sure liked blue gingham. Her dress was blue gingham, and he remembered the blue gingham curtains she’d hung over the bunkhouse window. She must have brought an entire bolt from New Orleans when she’d come West.
Wash plopped the hamper in the center of the tablecloth and took the opposite corner, stretching his long legs out until the tips of his boots almost brushed the white petticoat poking from under the flounces of her dress.
“Are you hungry?”
Her question sent a red-hot knife up his spine. “Sure,” he groaned. Damn, but he was hungry.
“I am, too. Very hungry. I have been working hard this morning.”
“Yeah?” With relief, Wash grabbed on to the conversational thread. “Working on what?” He accepted something wrapped up in a napkin—blue gingham, again—and watched her pour coffee from a Mason jar wrapped in a thick towel.
“On my lavender, of course. Surely you do not think my work ends with cutting a wagonload of lavender? My work is just beginning.”
Wash unfolded the napkin and bit into a still-warm pancake of some sort, rolled-up and filled with something. Melted cheese. His belly was going to heaven.
“This morning,” she went on, “I sold ten wreaths to Monsieur Ness at the mercantile for ten cents each, and seventeen small sachets for five cents apiece.” She flashed him a proud smile.
“I have now almost two whole dollars!”
Wash couldn’t help grinning at the note of triumph in her voice. He took another, larger bite of the pancake. “What will you do with your earnings?”
Her eyes—those green-blue eyes that had pulled at him the first time he’d met her—blinked and widened until they looked like two lumps of turquoise. “Why, I will rent a house, of course. For Manette and me!”
“With two dollars? Jeanne, that’s not enough to—”
“But it will be. I am making more wreaths and…” Her voice trailed off. “You do not think I can rent a house?”
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