Montez launched himself again, leading with his blade. Wash clenched his teeth so hard his jaw cracked. In half a second he’d be a dead man.
He slammed his elbow into the Spaniard’s chin just as a searing pain pierced his shoulder. He swore aloud. Without thinking, Wash brought his revolver up and fired.
Montez crumpled to the stable floor.
Wash heard a woman’s cry and then Tom Roper’s shout. He shook his head to clear it and walked toward the liveryman.
“Better get the sheriff, Tom. There’s a dead man lying on your floor.”
Chapter Twenty-One
From the moment Montez sprawled on the floor, every thing seemed to happen at once. Jeanne flew back into the stable and walked straight into Wash’s arms, in spite of the blood seeping through his shirt from the knife slice.
“The gunshot,” she said in a strangled voice. “I thought it was you.”
Wash just tightened his arms about her shaking body.
Tom Roper bent over the Spaniard’s inert form, his hands propped at his waist. “What’s he wanted for?”
“Breaking out of jail, for one thing,” Sheriff Dan Rubens said from the doorway. He was followed by his new young deputy, Curt Tempelhaus, who took one look and turned ashen.
“And maybe assault,” Wash added. He bent and put his mouth against Jeanne’s temple. She was trembling so hard the lace cuffs at her wrists fluttered.
“Did he hurt you?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head. “N-non. But he touch me, here.” She laid one hand on her breast and a shudder racked her frame. The top four buttons on her shirtwaist had been ripped free of the buttonholes; Jeanne clutched it together at her throat.
Wash had to bite his tongue to keep his voice calm. “Anywhere else?”
She buried her face against his shoulder. “My neck.” Her voice was muffled but not tearful. Gently he tipped her chin up and perused her skin from throat to hairline. An angry red band encircled her neck. Finger marks. Wash felt his control wobble.
The sheriff straightened. “Anybody else here at the time?”
Tom Roper cleared his throat. “Far as I knew, Miz Nicolet was the only one in the stable, Sheriff. Until Colonel Halliday came, just a few minutes ago.”
The short, graying sheriff turned to Wash. “You know the dead man, Colonel?”
Wash nodded. “Yeah. He worked on my survey crew. I fired him a while back.”
The sheriff nodded and a frown pulled his gray eyebrows together. “Will you be around a while longer, Colonel? Might have an inquest.”
“Long enough,” Wash answered. “Maybe another week.”
Jeanne’s body went absolutely still.
Oh, hell! He had not told her about leaving. This was a cowardly, backhanded way of letting her know, but he hadn’t had a chance to explain about Sykes or the letter or what his work for the railroad entailed. He prayed it would help that he had a $400 check for her in his pocket.
The sheriff glanced once in Wash’s direction and stalked out. Liveryman Tom coiled and recoiled a length of rope and finally exited to see to the horse he’d been training.
In the next minute the undertaker and his wagon rattled in and took the body away.
For a long time Jeanne said nothing, just stood there in the circle of his arms. When she stepped back to look up at him, there was fire in her green eyes.
“You are leaving.” Her voice sounded tight as new barbed wire.
“Jeanne, let me explain. The letter came just this after—”
She snapped her head up. “You have known this all along? That you would be leaving?”
He began to perspire. “Yes. I didn’t exactly know how to tell you.”
Her face was white as paste, her eyes bruised looking. Wash swallowed hard. “I’d give anything if you hadn’t found out this way.”
Her voice hardened. “It does not matter how I found out. I should have guessed long ago.”
“Jeanne…” He reached for her but she jerked away.
“Do not touch me!”
“At least let me explain.”
Her lips formed a thin line. “You do not need to ex plain. I understand well enough.”
He closed his hand around her upper arm. “Listen to me, dammit!”
Her eyes went wide, then instantly narrowed. “Alors, I am listening.”
Wash gritted his teeth. “I wanted to tell you, I just didn’t know how. When I got to the boardinghouse Mrs. Rose said you weren’t there, that you’d gone to the livery stable to get more lavender.”
“And so?” She spit the words at him.
“Rooney told me Montez was loose. I didn’t want you to be alone here.”
Jeanne moved away from him and was silent for a long moment. “For that I am grateful,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I am angry because…”
“Because I’m leaving? Or because I didn’t tell you before?”
She dropped her head to hide her face, then raised it immediately. “Why did you want to tell me at all? Is it because we are…close?”
He caught her wrist and pulled her toward him. “We’re more than ‘close,’ Jeanne, and you know it.”
Jeanne let out a shaky sigh. “Oui, I do.”
He had a strange expression on his suntanned face, as if something in his mouth had turned sour. For a moment a twinge of sympathy tempered her fury, but she brushed it aside. It felt much more satisfying to be angry.
“I’ve known I’d be leaving all along,” he said quietly. “I just didn’t know when.”
“Perhaps it does not matter?” She hated the way she sounded, like a quarrelsome fishwife.
“It matters,” he said. “I just don’t know what to do about it.”
Jeanne straightened her spine. “I could perhaps go with you?” She had to ask; she could not simply wipe him out of her heart.
“You and Manette, you mean?” Wash shook his head. “I’d only be there a month at the most, then Sykes will move me on to another town.”
“No. That I cannot do. Manette must remain in one place to go to school.”
Wash groaned. “This afternoon I thought hard about the Oregon Central. About resigning my position. Sykes could replace me and I could stay here. Work at something else.”
“You must not do that,” she said. “I know what your work means to you.” His job with the railroad was his way of healing his past wounds. He’d said it was his salvation. She could not ask him to forego that.
He looked up at the ceiling, his lips tense. “Gillette Springs is only forty miles east. Maybe I could—”
She stopped his lips with her fingers. “Non, you could not. You would exhaust yourself riding back and forth for only a few hours together.”
He caught her hand, turned it over and pressed a kiss into the center of her palm. “Jeanne, if we’re not careful, we’re going to talk ourselves out of something we—”
“Something we both want?” she blazed. “Is it not clear that we want two different things?” She turned away and started for the stable door. “You want your railroad, and I want a home for Manette and a place to grow my lavender.”
Wash walked beside her without speaking. At the boardinghouse, Mrs. Rose took one look at Wash’s haggard face, bandaged the knife slice on his shoulder and poured him a cup of double-strength coffee.
“I heard about the fracas over at the livery stable. You both look like you’ve been through one of those new-fangled clothes wringers.” The landlady brewed a cup of peppermint tea for Jeanne and shooed her upstairs with a glass of warm milk for Manette.
In tense silence Wash and Jeanne climbed the stairs to Manette’s room. Rooney was perched on the edge of the neatly made bed, reading aloud from an open book on his lap while Manette sprawled on her belly, her chin propped in her hands. Rooney marked his place with a finger and looked up.
“Heard about Montez,” he said. “Too bad.”
Wash and Jeanne glanced at each other. Roone
y cleared his throat and continued the tale of The Orphan Princess. “‘Then the cruel king ordered the guards to lock his daughter in the dungeon.’”
“But that’s not fair!” Manette objected. “It wasn’t her fault his glass horse broke.”
Rooney wet his lips. “That’s just the way it is, Little Miss. Life ain’t fair sometimes.”
Behind him, Jeanne sucked in an audible breath. Rooney shot a glance at Wash.
Manette cocked her head at him. “Why isn’t it always fair?”
“Well…” Rooney scratched his beard. “Uh…if things was always the same, always fair and always just, it’d be like having sunshine every single day. Wouldn’t it get kinda boring?”
“No!” the girl shouted.
“Non.” Jeanne murmured.
“Not on your life,” Wash growled.
Jeanne set the milk on the nightstand. “Finish your story, chou-chou. Then you must go to sleep.”
Wash caught Jeanne’s eye and tipped his chin toward the hallway.
She shook her head.
He grasped her elbow and propelled her into the hall and down the stairs. “There’s a lawn swing out on the front porch. We need to talk.”
She hesitated. “It will do no good, Wash. We are headed down two different paths.”
“Please, Jeanne. There’s more I want to say.”
His eyes looked smoky, like the blued steel of his revolver, and in their depths was an expression she could not read. Desperation?
She said nothing and let him guide her through the screen door to the wide front porch. The late summer night was quiet except for the rhythmic scrape of crickets and an occasional burst of song from an evening sparrow in the pepper tree overhanging the porch. Honeysuckle twined along the front fence, wafting a flowery scent on the warm air.
Jeanne drew in a shuddery breath. “The night is beautiful, is it not?”
Wash settled his long form onto the porch swing, pulled Jeanne down beside him and pushed off with his foot.
“Jeanne…”
“I have always liked summer,” she said quickly. “I came to Oregon in the summer, across the desert in a schooner wagon.”
“Alone?”
“Ah, no. I joined a wagon train. It is dangerous for a woman and a child to travel alone across the country.”
“Must have been hard traveling,” he said in a low voice.
“We came by rail to El Paso. That part was not difficult.”
“Jeanne…”
“Manette liked the train,” she added without a pause. “And—”
Wash groaned. “You know what?”
She blinked. “No, what?”
“You’re not letting me talk again. Won’t let me say something I’ve been wanting to say.”
She dropped her head until her chin brushed the lace at her throat. “It is because I am frightened.”
“Frightened of what? Of me?”
“Oh, no. Not of you. Well, yes, in a way.”
He twisted to face her. “‘Yes’ in what way?”
She raised her head and looked straight into his eyes. “I do not want to be unhappy.”
“I don’t want you to be unhappy. I’m trying to figure—”
“Wash.” She laid her hand on his forearm. “It is not possible. When you are gone, I will miss you.” She lifted her hand away and laid it in her lap. “But I will manage.”
“I imagine you will,” he said drily.
“Oui, I must. A woman should not depend on a man for happiness. I have to make the best of my life.”
Wash’s throat began to ache. “I have something for you. The railroad’s paying you for the land you got cheated out of, so…” He dug in his shirt pocket. “Here’s a check for your $400.”
“Vraiment? But I thought—”
“Don’t think, Jeanne. You’ve got enough money now to do anything you want, buy a house. Buy another farm.”
He slipped his own monthly pay into her hand. “My room and board is paid up for six months. I want you and Manette to stay here in town, at the boardinghouse.”
“But I cannot repay you!”
“I don’t ask for repayment. I need to know you’ll be safe and warm, come winter.”
“This will matter to you? Even though you will be gone?”
“Damn right, it matters to me.”
Her eyes shone with tears. “You are a good man, Wash.”
Wash tried to smile. “Well, hell, this ‘good man’ is not feeling very good about things right now.”
But something inside him eased, now that he’d told her everything. Everything he could afford to tell her, that is. He couldn’t tell her that he loved her; he wasn’t really sure what that would be like. He wanted her, for damn sure, but that wasn’t the same thing, and he’d be lying if he said it was.
In all the years since Laura, this was the first time he’d really cared about a woman. But his mind felt hazy and unfocused, and some kind of knot in his gut wouldn’t let him think it through.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Wash had no appetite for breakfast the next morning, but he did need coffee. All night he’d wrestled with nightmares: the first time he’d killed a Johnny Reb, the first time he’d kissed Laura Gannon behind the school house. The last time he’d seen her before the War, driving her own rig out of Smoke River on the day she was to marry him.
Maybe if he could sort all those blasted memories out, he’d be able to think straight.
The long table gradually filled up with boarders chattering about yesterday’s shooting at the livery stable and whether it would rain on Sunday’s Church Ladies’ social. And… Where was Mrs. Nicolet and her charming daughter this morning?
Rooney tramped in and without a word settled into the chair next to him.
“Is little Manette better this morning?” the schoolteacher who boarded with Mrs. Rose asked.
Rooney just grunted, and the woman turned her attention to the platter of pancakes in the center of the table. Half an hour later Jeanne entered, a silent Manette clinging to her hand. Jeanne nodded a Good Morning but said nothing and she did not look at Wash but seated herself and her daughter across the table from him. Rooney rose to fill her cup with hot coffee. Manette’s cup he filled to the top with mostly milk and Jeanne added a splash of coffee.
Her gaze moved from the pancakes to the china cream pitcher on the sideboard, but she clearly avoided looking at Wash. Her mouth didn’t look pinched like it had yesterday, but she wasn’t smiling, either. She wasn’t even close.
Wash lingered over a third cup of coffee, hoping she’d say something, but she remained as talkative as a fence post. Finally he couldn’t stand it any longer. He pushed away from the table and stood up.
She didn’t even glance at him.
But Rooney did. The older man met Wash’s gaze and shrugged his shoulders. Wash could read the man’s thoughts as if they were smoke signals. Hell, I don’t know what’s goin’ on with you two!
Wash wished he did. Last night Jeanne had been angry; today he didn’t know what she was. Resigned, maybe. A lump of iron dropped into his stomach. Whatever she was feeling he’d better keep his mind off it; today he and his crew would be blasting through rock to carve out the Green Valley Cut.
He signed to Rooney and strode outside, purposely keeping his eyes away from the porch swing. He could still feel Jeanne’s warmth next to him, still smell the fresh scent of her hair.
Out at the site, he unlocked the kegs of black powder and carefully parceled out bags of the stuff to Sam and the grinning team members lined up behind him. The Chinese sure loved things that exploded; each time a charge sent off, they stood rapt as if expecting colored streamers and shooting stars to pop out.
The workers reached the sheer granite face at the valley’s end and progress along the Cut slowed to mere inches. All day the men pounded holes in the rock with iron hand drills and stuffed them with black powder. When the fuses were lit, each blast brought a shower of rocky sh
rapnel.
It was hot, sweaty labor. When a fuse didn’t ignite, it was Wash who shimmied up the rock to inspect the failed charge and either relight the half-burned corded string or tamp in more explosive powder.
Made him sweat some. The headman, Sam, tried to wave him off. “Much danger, boss. Blow off hand.”
“Yeah, well someone has to do it.” Wash refused to imperil any of the crew under his supervision. He’d never sent a man into battle or to do a job that he himself wouldn’t undertake, and he wasn’t about to start now. Maybe he was a damn fool, but he felt responsible for his men.
Little by little the path blasted through the granite grew wide enough to allow the six-foot railroad ties and the steel rails that would be spaced four feet, eight inches apart. By midday, both Wash and the crew were gray with sifted dust from the exploding rock. Even his face felt sandy with the acrid-smelling stuff.
About noon, Rooney rode in, took one look at the advancing Cut and then at Wash’s dust-coated face and loosed a tirade of curses. “Ya crazy idiot, ya wanna get yerself blown to smithereens? Jeanne will never forgive you.”
“Then don’t tell her!” Wash snapped. “A man does what he has to.” Besides, Jeanne wouldn’t forgive him for much more than just handling the explosive powder.
Rooney leaned sideways on his strawberry roan and spit so close to Wash’s boots he had to jump out of the way. “Huh! I s’pose right about now you find this easier than dealing with Jeanne.”
“Yeah? What would you know about Jeanne and me?”
“Enough. You might be riskin’ your skin out here, but dyin’ is a coward’s way out.”
“Talk straight, Rooney. You know I’m no coward. What are you trying to say?”
Rooney rolled his eyes at the blue sky overhead. “Gettin’ blowed up is one thing. Gettin’ flayed down to your vitals by a riled-up woman is another. I figure you’re just plain scared.”
“She’s riled up, is she?”
Rooney spit at Wash’s feet again. “Dunno. She’s all closed up like a morning glory before the sun rises. She hasn’t popped yet, but she sure will if you get yerself killed.”
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