Lady Lavender

by Lynna Banning

  Jeanne bent over Manette, still asleep on the other bed, and noticed the blue shirt she wore as a nightgown was soaking wet. Her fever had broken during the night! She laid her palm on her daughter’s forehead. Cool, but a bit sticky. She would sponge her off with fresh water when she woke up.

  A tap on the door and then Dr. Graham’s voice announced, “Let me examine your daughter, Mrs. Nicolet. You go on down to breakfast.”

  “But I—”

  “Mrs. Nicolet, you need to eat.” Gently but firmly the tall, silver-haired physician ushered her out into the hallway.

  The dining table was empty except for Rooney, who sat hunched over a cup of coffee.

  “May I join you?”

  “Oh, sure, Jeanne. Sure. Not much left after Wash finished, though.”

  “Bon. I have not much appetite.”

  Rooney sent her a quick, sly look. “Any partic’lar reason?”

  “No.”

  His grin faded. “Oh.”

  Jeanne concentrated on the coffee Rooney poured into her china cup. “Yes,” she amended. “There is a reason.”

  “Are you all right, Jeanne? You don’t seem too sure this mornin’.”

  She bent her head. “Oh, Rooney, I don’t know.” She drew in a slow, shaky breath. “I don’t know if I am happy or sad.”

  Rooney nodded. “How’s Little Miss?”

  “Better, I think. Her fever broke last night. Dr. Graham is with her now.”

  “She wake up yet?”

  Jeanne shook her head. “Not yet. And her arm—”

  “Bruised black ’n blue, I’d guess.”

  “And yellow and purple! It looks terrible.”

  “That’ll pass. Point this mornin’ is to keep Big Miss goin’. So eat up, now.”

  Sarah bustled in from the kitchen with a plate piled high with toast. “Shall I scramble a couple of eggs for you, dearie?”

  Jeanne looked up at the older woman and tried to smile. Tears stung into her eyes. “You are very kind, but—”

  Sarah shot a look at Rooney, who was just reaching for a slice of toast. “Maybe that’s because a certain older gentleman is mighty fond of your daughter.”

  Rooney paused with his hand over the jam jar. “Now, Sarah…”

  “Might also be a younger gentleman who’s fond of—”

  “Sarah!” Rooney interrupted. “Could you bring us some more, um, toast?”

  The landlady looked pointedly at the existing stack of toast and pursed her lips. Rooney met her gaze. “Please?” he added. Mrs. Rose retreated to her kitchen and Rooney cocked his head at Jeanne.

  “Wanna talk some?”

  Jeanne sighed. “About Wash?” She felt her cheeks grow warm. “I do not know what to think, or do, about that man.”

  “Well, cheer up, Jeanne, honey. Wash don’t know what to do about you, either.”

  She couldn’t help laughing. She slathered strawberry jam on a thick slice of buttered toast and bit an almost perfect circle off one corner.

  Rooney’s black eyes twinkled. “It’s good to hear you laugh. Been pretty grim around here since that rattler lunched on Little Miss’s arm. You think I could visit her for a bit this mornin’?”

  “Most certainly,” a deep male voice answered. Dr. Graham stepped through the double glass doors, plopped his black leather bag on an empty chair and touched Jeanne’s shoulder. “Your daughter is going to be good as new in a few days, Mrs. Nicolet.”

  Jeanne clasped the older man’s hand in both of hers but she could not speak.

  He patted her arm. “I’ll check on your daughter again this evening.”

  “Oh, thank you! Thank you so much.”

  She felt so relieved she devoured the entire stack of toast, then absentmindedly gobbled down the scrambled eggs Mrs. Rose set in front of her. The landlady exchanged a secret smile with Rooney and again disappeared into the kitchen.

  The minute Jeanne and Rooney entered the upstairs bedroom, Manette’s eyes popped open. “Maman? I’m hungry!”

  “Are you, chou-chou?” She worked to keep her voice from cracking. “Bon! I will bring some breakfast for you, and after you have eaten, we will have a bath.”

  Manette grimaced. “Do I have to?”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “But I don’t want a bath.”

  “Well,” Rooney interjected, “you know what? You hafta hurry up and get well so I can show you some secrets about rattlesnakes.” Jeanne flinched.

  “What kind of secrets?” Manette queried.

  Rooney caught Jeanne’s eye and winked. “Oh, things like how to see ’em before they see you. How to listen for their rattles.” He sent another wink to Jeanne. “And how they taste when you fry ’em up in bacon grease.”

  “Ewwww,” Jeanne and Manette said in unison. Rooney just chuckled.

  “I’ll make you a bet, Little Miss. I’ll bet that you can’t tell the difference between a bite of chicken and a bite of rattlesnake.”

  Manette’s blue eyes snapped with interest. “What’ll you bet, Rooney?”

  Jeanne rolled her eyes to the ceiling and headed to the kitchen to boil an egg for her daughter. And heat some water for a sponge bath. The last thing she heard before the door closed behind her was the low murmur of Rooney’s voice and her daughter’s high, clear laughter.

  The sound brought tears to her eyes.

  Wash reined in at the valley’s edge and sat his horse watching the Chinese crew heave and drop the heavy rails and drive the iron spikes in place. The metal track glinted in the sun like two silver ribbons.

  Gradually the crew pushed their way along the length of the valley floor, and as the day grew hotter, the Chinese crew seemed to work even faster. By tomorrow they’d be ready to blast through the steep canyon wall at the far end with dynamite and a measure of caution.

  Wash had always disliked setting charges, disliked the anxious, pregnant wait until the explosion rumbled and the lookout man shouted “All clear.”

  He still had a hard time with sudden loud noises; blasting the Green Valley Cut would make his nerves so jumpy he wouldn’t sleep nights. But there would be no blasting for a while since the route through Green Valley and on to Gillette Springs would run across flat ground.

  He studied the thousands of acres of fertile land that stretched to the distant mountains and wondered suddenly if Jeanne could file a homesteader’s claim on some of that land. Oregon didn’t allow Indians to gain land this way, but what about a woman? He laughed out loud. If there was a way to do it, Jeanne would find it. He’d never known a woman quite like her.

  He’d petitioned Sykes two weeks ago about the $400 Jeanne had been swindled out of. He wanted her to have the money to help her make a new start. With $400 she could buy any building in town! But without a doubt she’d want a house. A home for herself and her daughter.

  His head jerked up at a chuffing noise at the valley rim. A steam engine was puffing its way along the newly laid track, black smoke billowing from the smokestack. The locomotive slowed to a crawl and the engineer leaned out of his window, waving a mail pouch.

  The train stopped just behind the flatbed car full of iron track sections and sat steaming in place until Wash spurred General and rode over to the hissing engine.

  “You George Washington Halliday?” the engineer yelled.

  Wash nodded.

  “Letter for you.” The man leaned out and tossed down the mail pouch. “Must be important, cuz now I’ve gotta get this baby all the way back to Portland goin’ backward!”

  Wash snagged the hurtling pouch and waved his thanks. What could be so important that Sykes would send a train instead of a rider?

  Inside he found two envelopes, both from Grant Sykes. The first contained a check for $400, made out to Jeanne Nicolet. Wash looked up at the clear blue sky overhead and felt his heart lift. His efforts on her behalf had not been in vain.

  Hallelujah! He could hardly wait to see the look on her face. He would add his own salary for the month
…then she could buy anything she wanted.

  The second envelope contained a letter from Sykes. Wash unfolded it, read it over, then read it again. It wasn’t unexpected, but he hadn’t thought it would come this soon.

  “Move on to Gillette Springs. Survey the area between the river and P. Henderson’s cattle ranch. Calculate the angle of the curves and…”

  He refolded the letter and stuffed it and Jeanne’s check into his shirt pocket. The sky, the trees, even the shimmers of hot summer air along the railroad tracks, dimmed to gray, as if a cloud had swallowed up the sun.

  What was wrong? He’d surveyed dozens of river-to-ranch routes, calculated hundreds of arcs and grades. He’d always found the best boardinghouse for himself and Rooney, gotten to know the sheriff and the bartender at the saloon. This job wouldn’t be any different.

  But right now, just thinking about it, it sure felt different, like something was stuck in his craw. There was one thing he’d never faced before, and now it was staring him in the face like a big black locomotive. When they finished laying track through the Green Valley Cut, he’d thought the hard part would be over.

  Wash swore aloud. No, dammit, the hard part wouldn’t be over.

  The hard part would be saying goodbye to Jeanne.

  Chapter Twenty

  Wash stayed at the site long after the aroma of chicken and exotic spices drifted on the still air and the Chinese cook summoned the crew to supper. Twice he walked the entire length of the tracks up to the proposed cut, calculating where to set blasting caps the next morning and how much dynamite he had to work with. By the time he had tramped back up to the rim, his hip was aching.

  Still, he put off returning to town, finding small cleanup tasks to keep himself occupied. Finally his grumbling stomach demanded that he eat. Maybe he’d take supper in the hotel dining room instead of at Mrs. Rose’s crowded table; food wouldn’t be as good, but it would be quieter. He needed time to think. He mounted General and headed back to town.

  He had always moved on to his next assignment as the Oregon Central Railroad connected Portland with smaller cities and towns; he’d never experienced such a wrench at the prospect.

  As he rode he tried to sort out his mixed feelings. In an odd way part of him was relieved; his absence could answer the nagging questions about his feelings for Jeanne. Another part of him was so full of regret at leaving her he couldn’t think straight.

  Usually he felt deep-down satisfaction at a job well done.

  But instead of feeling satisfied about this job in Green Valley, he felt dead inside. He didn’t feel like celebrating as he and Rooney usually did over a shot of Red Eye at the saloon.

  The closer he got to town, the more uneasy he felt. Lights flickered along the main street when he rode in and tied up at the hotel. Maybe he’d feel better with some of Rita’s steak and potatoes filling his belly.

  No, he didn’t want to see Jeanne. Not yet. Not until he’d decided what he would say to her. But an hour later, even though his stomach was full of dinner plus apple pie and a half gallon of black coffee, the empty feeling was still there. A weight like a blacksmith’s anvil pressed on his chest, crushing down harder with every breath.

  He wanted to see Jeanne.

  He paid his supper bill and drifted next door to the Golden Partridge. Need for Jeanne made his whole body ache. But dammit, he didn’t feel right making love to her now, knowing he would be leaving so soon. That knowledge in itself made his heart constrict. He hadn’t seen this coming. If he’d thought it through that night after the Jensens’ dance, maybe he’d never…

  But he knew better. He hadn’t thought, he’d just let himself feel something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel since Laura.

  Rooney strode through the saloon’s swinging doors, sized up the table of cowboys and ranchers engaged in a poker game, then settled himself beside Wash at the bar.

  “Been here long?” He signaled the bartender.

  “Nope.”

  Rooney ordered a beer. “Missed you at supper.”

  “Stayed late at the site.”

  “Missed one of Sarah’s fine meat loaves.”

  Wash downed the last of his whiskey and signaled for a fill-up. “Guess I did.”

  “Missed the sheriff’s visit, too. Seems Montez is on the loose.”

  Wash’s head came up, but all he did was grunt.

  Rooney eyed him sideways. “Missed seein’ Little Miss an’ me playin’ checkers.”

  “Yeah? Did she win?”

  Rooney chose not to answer that. “Missed seein’ Jeanne, too.”

  Wash said nothing.

  “You gonna sleep at the boardinghouse tonight?”

  That thought carved a gut full of red-hot desire in Wash’s belly. He said nothing.

  Rooney leaned closer. “Heard from Sykes, didja? He movin’ you on to Gillette Springs?”

  “How’d you know that?” Wash grumbled.

  Rooney tapped his head with one long forefinger. “Comanche smarts, I guess. Haven’t seen you with such a long face since Laur—”

  “Shut up, Rooney.”

  But his partner just grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, son. You’ll live.” Then he ambled off to join the poker game.

  Jeanne waved at Tom Roper, the liveryman, and walked on past him into the interior of the stable. Tom had been friendlier since the railroad had made such progress, and since he’d seen her wagonload of lavender; in fact, he had nodded his head in admiration.

  It was dark inside the stable, and it smelled of straw and horses. She left the broad hinged door open so she could see her way to the wagon loaded with her harvested lavender. Even from here, she could smell the fragrant lavender fronds.

  She sucked in a deep breath and closed her eyes. I thank you, God, for the life of my child and for the bounty of my field.

  Abruptly the door swung shut with a thump and Jeanne’s eyelids snapped open. She could see nothing but thick, velvety blackness. “Monsieur Roper?”

  Silence.

  “Tom?”

  And then a low, oily voice spoke close to her ear.

  “Buenas noches, señora.”

  Wash finally dragged himself up the boardinghouse porch steps, hoping to see Jeanne, but she was not there. “No, Colonel,” Mrs. Rose explained. “She worked all afternoon makin’ those pretty wreaths of hers. Just now she’s gone over to the livery stable to get some more lavender.”

  “How long ago?”

  The landlady pursed her thin lips. “About half an hour, I’d say. I’ve been watching over Manette until she gets back. Should be any minute now.”

  A sense of unease settled in his chest. Montez is loose. All at once he needed to see Jeanne, wanted to make sure she was all right.

  He wheeled toward the staircase, took the steps two at a time and burst into his room. From the top shelf of the carved wooden armoire in the corner he withdrew his gun belt, slid six cartridges into his revolver and strapped the weapon around his hip. He couldn’t really say why, just following an instinct.

  The main street was dimly lit. The mercantile was closed and the only light shone from the saloon and the front windows of the hotel. Wash moved quietly toward the edge of town and the livery stable, staying in the shadows and working to keep his breathing steady. On cat feet he drew near the barnlike structure that held horses and the wagon loaded with Jeanne’s lavender crop.

  The wide door was shut, but the owner, Tom Roper, was in the adjacent yard working on a pinto quarter horse by lantern light. Wash signaled his intention to enter the stable. Tom waved him on and Wash automatically slowed his steps.

  No sound came from inside. No lamplight showed under the broad door. He approached the closed entrance at an angle, and when he was close enough to touch the wall, he unholstered his gun and flipped the safety off. Very deliberately he laid his left hand on the one-by-four board that served as a door handle and yanked it back, hard. The door shuddered open.

  Was
h stepped into the gloomy interior. “Jeanne?”

  Silence. The hair on the back of his neck began to bristle.

  “Jeanne? Where are you?”

  A rustle of straw drew his attention, and in the next instant he heard a familiar voice.

  “The lady, she ees not here, señor.”

  “Montez! What are you doing here?”

  “I sneaked in to visit…with my horse. We are good amigos, me and my horse.”

  Wash turned toward the voice. It came from his left and he squinted, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. “Where is Mrs. Nicolet?”

  “She don’ like me because my skin is darker than her preetty milky-white skin. I do not know where she is, señor.”

  The Spaniard was lying. “I don’t believe you.” Gradually he could make out the shadowy outline of the man’s frame.

  “I cannot help that.” Montez made a slight movement with one arm. Wash studied the outline of the Spaniard’s body and noticed something that made his blood run cold. Why would the man’s shape look wider than it had a moment before?

  Because he was hiding Jeanne behind him.

  Sweat dampened the neckband of his shirt. He couldn’t shoot for fear of catching Jeanne with the bullet. At least he could tell she was standing up, and that meant she was conscious. And maybe—maybe— Montez hadn’t hurt her.

  Over the sound of Montez’s raspy breathing Wash could hear the whistled signals Tom was using to train the pinto out in the yard. If he could get Jeanne to run for the stable door…

  Maybe if he spoke in French, Montez would not understand, but Jeanne would. He racked his brain for the right words.

  “Je compris,” he managed. That told her he knew she was there, hidden behind the Spaniard.

  What next? Run for the door. “Vas au fenestre.” He pronounced each word with elaborate care.

  “Speak American,” Montez snapped.

  Wash ignored him. “Vas quand je dis trois.” Go when I say three.

  Suddenly Montez had a knife in his hand.

  “Un,” Wash said. He waited two interminable breaths.

  “Deux.”

  The Spaniard hunched his body and came at him, the knife glinting silver.

  “Trois!” Wash yelled. The blade sliced his shoulder, but the sound of small boots and the stable door crashing open told him Jeanne had escaped.