“She still at the boardinghouse?”
“Nah. She took Little Miss and rode out to MacAllister’s bunkhouse. Said she had some work to do.”
Wash wheeled away from his friend’s piercing gaze and wished the roaring in his head would ease up. Might be he was still flinchy around loud noises, like he’d been after the War. Or maybe he was too close to the charges when they went off.
Or, dammit, maybe it was the constant imagined conversation with Jeanne that was getting his brain all mixed up. Anyway, his head was starting to hurt like hell.
He grabbed the bridle of Rooney’s horse. “Either get down and help me finish this job or clear out and leave me be.”
Rooney snorted. “Seein’ as how you’re in a worse mood than Jeanne, I guess I’ll clear out.” He tried to rein away, but Wash held onto the bridle. He softened his tone. “I’ll see you at supper.”
Wash released his hold on the horse and Rooney sidled away from him. “And don’t ask me to ride out an’ keep an eye on Jeanne!”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” Rooney aimed another glob of spit close to Wash’s dusty boots. “Because Jeanne is your responsibility, not mine. You’re the one that got her all fussed up in the first place.”
“You’re right, you old buzzard.”
Rooney cocked his ear toward him. “Well, that’s more like it!”
“Now clear out.” Wash slapped Rooney’s mount on the rump and watched with satisfaction as the horse jolted into a canter. Anything to get rid of the man’s incessant nattering. “Damned nosy, interfering, know-it-all Comanche,” he muttered.
Wash reached for the black powder tin looped to his belt and stopped short. He did want to protect Jeanne, keep her safe. He’d never looked at it that way before, but yes, he did feel responsible for her.
His chest tightened as if a huge fist were squeezing from the inside. He didn’t want to feel responsible. Didn’t want to feel a tie between Jeanne and himself. He let out a heavy groan. Didn’t matter what he wanted, the tie was already there.
Taking in an uneven breath, he yelled for Sam. “Let’s get back to blasting.”
Within ten minutes, the sound of rock ripping away from its bed of earth cut through the otherwise tranquil morning, and all through the long, powder-dusted afternoon, Wash thought about responsibility. Each time he crept up a slab of rock to fix a fuse that failed to ignite or fill the hole with more of the grainy black explosive, he rolled questions around in his brain. Questions about his past. About his life now.
About the years to come.
Dying would be easy; it was living that was hard. He thought that over while he reached into a drilled-out hole to make sure the fuse cord touched the charge. Being alive meant you felt things: a father’s untimely death; a prison guard’s brutality; a lover’s betrayal. Being alive meant you got attached to things.
And people. The headache pounding in his temples kicked up a notch. He tamped down the powder and resecured the fuse, then found his mind wandering again. It didn’t take a genius to know he was attached to Jeanne. Not hog-tied and squealing, but…well…attached. He liked her more than he’d liked any woman, even Laura. But…
But.
Using the flint and steel he carried in his back pocket, he created a spark and bent to fan it with his breath. When the flame sizzled along the fuse cord, he shinnied down the rock face.
Just in time—the charge went off sooner than he expected. All he could do was turn away and hunch his shoulders against the rain of granite bits. Hell, it was like a thunderstorm of rocks.
When the dust cleared, Sam grabbed his arm and dragged him away through the smoke. “Not good you get hurt.” The Chinese man shook his forefinger in Wash’s face. “Should not take chance.”
“Wait a minute, Sam. Who’s the boss around here?”
In answer, Sam jabbed the same forefinger into Wash’s chest. “Stupid. Dumb. Make no sense.” He kept jabbing.
Wash opened his mouth to protest, but his throat was so clogged he could make only a wheezing sound.
“Boss see now,” Sam crowed in triumph. “Voice gone.”
Wash shook his head, then gulped water from the canteen he carried at his hip. “I’m okay, Sam. Just parched.”
“And stupid,” the Chinese muttered. He loped back the ten yards to the advancing tracks.
Maybe so, Wash acknowledged. Maybe Rooney was right, he’d rather risk dying than living with more pain of the female variety.
A stab of agony shot across the top of his head and settled behind his eyes. When he turned to follow Sam back up to the rim he found he was unsteady on his feet. And dizzy, he noted after he’d gone two steps.
The six o’clock dinner gong reverberated into the canyon. Like well-organized ants, the crew lined up four abreast and double-timed it up to the rim and their waiting supper. Sam flashed him a grin as he jogged past.
Wash tried to smile back but the effort made his teeth ache.
What was the matter with him?
Nothing that an hour’s rest and some whiskey wouldn’t cure.
The young Chinese boy, Lin, led his horse over and Wash heaved his weight into the saddle, fighting off waves of nausea. Nothing serious, he told himself. Just the “too’s” again: Too much coffee. Too much work. Too much thinking.
Too much remembering.
He kicked General into a canter but immediately slowed him to a gentle walk. Maybe he’d hit his head on something. He chuckled, then bit his lip against the surge of pain.
He’d hit his heart on something, too.
By the time he reached town, it was dusk, and whenever he moved his head the throbbing in his temples and behind his eyes felt like a cannonball exploding in his brain. If he didn’t look down at the ground his head didn’t spin so bad, so he stared across the plain at the pink and orange sunset against the mountains on the far horizon. He carefully walked his mount to the boardinghouse and dismounted at the front gate. Mrs. Rose was clipping back her honeysuckle. Wash asked if her grandson could take his horse on over to the livery stable.
The landlady looked puzzled for a moment, then peered up at his face. “Land sakes, you look awful,” she blurted.
“Mostly rock dust,” he told her. “And maybe a bit of a headache.”
She shoved her hand-shears into her apron pocket and studied him more closely, looking especially hard at his eyes. “Go right on up to your room, Colonel, and I’ll bring some tea.”
“Coffee?” he said hopefully.
“Tea,” she insisted. “Made from willow bark. Best remedy for a headache.”
He watched her young grandson lead General off down the street, then dragged himself up the stairs, shucked his boots and his hat, and stretched out on his bed. The quilt underneath him smelled of soap and sunshine.
His eyelids drifted shut. He lay without moving until he heard the thump of footsteps on the stairs and the swish of his door opening. Someone—Mrs. Rose—laid a cool washcloth across his face and settled a mug of odd-smelling liquid onto his chest. She lifted one of his hands and positioned it around the mug to hold it in place.
“Sip it,” the woman ordered. She wiped the grit off his face with the cloth, wrung it out in a basin of water and laid it over his closed eyes. “Doc Graham said something about a ‘vascular spasm.’”
“Never heard of it,” Wash muttered. “Don’t tell Jeanne.”
“Don’t need to. But it appears you’ve got one, and I aim to fix it.”
Mrs. Rose, he thought hazily, was a singular woman.
“Thanks,” he murmured. The last thing he remembered was gulping down the bitter tea.
Hours later he woke up when a gentle hand drew the cloth from his eyes, freshened it in cool water and replaced it.
“Supper over?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Your grandson see to my horse?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Wash drew in a long breath of dust-free air and realized his head no
longer ached. His mind felt fuzzy and slow, as if he’d downed too many shots of whiskey in too short a time. But what the hell? He’d felt unfocused like this before, like that night with Jeanne after the Jensens’ dance.
Thinking about that made him feel good inside and then sent a needle of agony through his eyeballs.
Thinking about leaving town in a few days made his gut hurt.
A hand again set a mug on his chest and steadied it against his curved palm. He breathed in the smell of coffee and couldn’t help smiling.
“Thanks, Mrs. Rose. You sure know what a man needs when he’s down.” It was Mrs. Rose, wasn’t it?
He heard a sniff and then the click of the door as it closed.
Didn’t matter what she thought; he’d been ambushed by a temporary weakness and he was grateful for her attention. A cup of coffee was a small thing, maybe, but at the right time it sure meant a lot. By Jupiter, he sure admired a woman’s intuition.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Wash woke with a start when Rooney tramped into his room.
“Heard you was feelin’ kinda puny.”
Wash didn’t bother to open his eyes. “Better now. Mrs. Rose made me some tea.”
“That’s some woman,” Rooney said softly. “One in a million.”
“Make that two in a million. Jeanne’s mighty unusual, too.”
Rooney was quiet for a long minute. “Wash, when you figure on movin’ on to Gillette Springs?”
“Two or three days. I want to get the rails laid all the way through the Cut we’re blasting.”
“You mind if I lay out my pallet in here tonight? Jeanne and Little Miss are—”
“Sure.” His chest felt warm all at once, as if filled with light knowing she was just across the hall and not out at the bunkhouse tonight. Maybe he’d see her at breakfast.
Rooney lit the kerosene lamp and Wash rolled over, away from the light. He heard the older man flap open his rolled-up pallet and mutter to himself as he straightened the blanket edges. Wash drifted toward sleep thinking about Rooney, how much he owed the older man, how much he valued his friendship. He wondered if he’d ever told him that.
His last thoughts before sleep were about Jeanne, how beautiful her voice was when she read to her daughter in French. And what a maddeningly independent, stubborn woman she was.
He woke the next morning still thinking about her. Rooney had already rolled up his bedroll and leaned it in the corner. Wash guessed he’d already be at breakfast in the dining room downstairs.
And so would Jeanne.
He bounded off the bed, grabbed a clean shirt out of the bureau drawer, splashed water on his face and combed his tumbled hair off his face with his fingers. The mirror over the chest reminded him he hadn’t shaved in two days; today would make it three. Couldn’t be helped; he was in a hurry. He wanted to see Jeanne more than he wanted to spend time scraping off his whiskers.
He reached the staircase before he finished tucking in his shirt, clattered down the steps and strode into the dining room.
No Jeanne. Not at the breakfast table. Not out on the front porch. He gobbled down his eggs and toast and marched down to the livery stable. Her gray horse was gone. He’d missed her. Disappointment eroded a twisting path through his belly, but he had a job to do out at Green Valley. He saddled up his horse and headed out to the site.
Rooney was already there, his sleeves rolled up, stacking wood for the Chinese cook. “Sky looks bad,” he said. “Storm comin’.”
Wash studied the lowering black clouds overhead. Tinged with a dark purple-gray, they pressed down on the land like the miasma of heavy smoke he’d seen on battlefields.
“Think the Cut you’re blastin’ will wash out?” Rooney queried.
“Not if the rain holds off awhile and we can get it shored up.” He glanced again at the sky with a sinking feeling.
The first splatter of rain came just before noon.
“Maman, why are you frowning?” Manette patted Jeanne’s forearm with her small, sticky hand. “It makes your face look all wrinkled up, like Rooney’s.”
Jeanne stabbed another lavender stem into the wreath growing under her unsteady hands. It was good to be home, even if it was just a bunkhouse.
Why was she frowning? Because of that maddening man, Wash Halliday. She knew he cared about her; a man like Wash did not seduce women just for diversion.
She knew other things about him, as well. He was stubborn. He was wary of involvement. And stubborn. Wash was a wounded bear who had unexpectedly stumbled into her life. He was the most stubborn man she had ever encountered.
What was she to do about him?
“Maman?”
“Oh! I am sorry, chou-chou. My thoughts were wandering.”
Jeanne started an imaginary list. What to do about Wash.
First, she could forget about him. That would be like ripping her heart out, but she could try.
Second, she could pursue him. Jamais! A well-brought-up woman never pursued a man. Yes, she wanted Wash. But not if he was hesitant or unsure about what he wanted.
Third—
“Maman! You are wandering again.” She pointed at the wreath.
“Ah, you are right. What was it you asked me?”
But Manette had been patient long enough. She dropped the fronds of lavender she had been weaving, stomped up the step into the bunkhouse and slammed the flimsy door behind her.
Jeanne sighed and snatched up her half-woven wreath. She wished Rooney had not ridden out to Green Valley this morning. He’d mumbled something about saving Wash from himself and then sauntered off to the livery for his horse.
What did that mean, “saving Wash from himself”? Her heart skipped. Mon Dieu, was he doing something dangerous? Bon. Another reason to forget about him—he could get himself killed.
“Third,” she said aloud, adding to her list. “Third, I could…” Ah, no. She could not do that, even if she wanted to. Move back to New Orleans and forget she’d ever met Wash Halliday? Never. It had cost her too much to come out here to Oregon in the first place.
Besides, she did not want to go back to New Orleans. She found she liked Oregon. The townspeople had been slow to warm up, but that had been mostly her own fault. She had preferred to keep to herself. Ah, back to her list!
Fourth, she could marry someone else. Manette needed a father, it was true; but this was not about Manette, was it?
This was about the longing Jeanne felt whenever she thought about life with that unreachable man. Her very bones ached for him, but she could not wait for him to declare himself. Her life must move on.
Fifth, what if she decided never to marry anyone? She, too, had struggled to survive a crippling relationship before she had come to Smoke River. But I will pine for this man, Wash Halliday, for the rest of my life. Never once have I pined for Henri. Still, it was not enough to want a man, to hunger to be part of his life. Either she was part of it, or she was not.
And with Wash, she was not.
She must move on, in spite of him.
Automatically she wound the lavender fronds in and out, tighter and tighter; when she glanced down at her apron-covered lap, she was surprised to find the wreath was completely finished. More than finished, it was overstuffed!
She grabbed a handful of lavender stalks and started on another wreath because she needed to keep her hands busy. Wash Halliday, you are responsible for my frown and for my flittering thoughts and for the ache in my heart.
She was trying hard to understand, and perhaps she did, at least a little. A hurt bear looked first to his wounds; he did not join with others until he started to heal.
Did bears stay with each other after they mated? The thought made her laugh aloud. Of course they did not. Bears were animals; it was human beings who made commitments.
But not a man like Wash Halliday. She bit her lip. Wash was using his job as a shield.
Sixth, she could wait. She could wait until this man, whom she had accepted into her
body, had healed his wounds and rejoined life.
Non, she could not just wait. She must move on, for herself and for Manette.
Ah, another list: Things Wash needed to learn.
First, he needed to learn that he was not alone in having suffered wounds of the heart.
He needed to learn that life would always have risks; that is what life was. Some risks turned out to be devastating; some were pain-filled; and some were glorious while they lasted. She had known all three: her marriage to Henri had been bitter. Birthing Manette had been so agonizing she had wished to die. But her few nights with Wash had been filled with wonder and joy and…
She jerked her mind back to the list.
He needed to learn that it took strength to be happy. He did not lack strength; the man was simply reluctant to reach out his paw—ah, no, his hand—again.
What should I do?
She bent her head over a spray of lavender as the truth dawned.
Nothing. She would do nothing. A man captured against his will was not what she wanted. She wished for a man who wanted to join his life with hers; a man who was willing to fight for that.
Voila! Another wreath completed! At this rate she should start looking for a suitable farmstead to purchase.
“Manette?” Jeanne jumped to her feet, scattering bits of stems onto the ground. “Come out, chou-chou. My frown is gone! I have decided something.”
“You say you want to buy a farm, Miz Nicolet?” The banker, Will Rasmussen, looked at Jeanne doubtfully. “Well, yes, there’s a couple of places up for sale, but…” He coughed and cleared his throat. “How do you plan to pay for it?”
Jeanne jolted upright. “With money, of course. I have now money of my own.”
Rasmussen scratched his chin. “How much money?”
“How much is the farm?” she snapped.
The banker raised both hands and took a step backward. “You want to ride out and see the place?”
“But of course,” she said stiffly. “I do not intend to purchase a pig in a pot.”
“Poke,” he muttered under his breath, trying to squash a smile. “Pig in a poke.”
He cast a wary look out of the bank window where dark clouds roiled overhead. “Better hurry, then. Looks like there’s a storm on the way.”
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