Trish took Quinn up on his offer to wash her clothes. Following his example from watching him earlier in the week, she wore her camisole while scrubbing her skirt and blouse until her fingers hurt and still her things were not as clean as she would like. She gave up, wringing them tight before draping them over the same branches Quinn had used.
She knew she had no idea how to flirt with Quinn. She had tried with a smile and tentative touch. That had failed miserably. Maybe she should have undressed. She shook her head. No, that just wasn't her. Now she could only swim in the waters he had. She'd competently snubbed any and all advances for the sake of pursuing her career. Now she'd given up on it only to find she lacked the ability to seduce or even lure a man. It shouldn't matter; she was going home…
She found the organic smells of the swimming hole mixed with the singing of the birds relaxing. The quiet flow of water whispered peace to her stretch existence, allowing her to meditate. She returned to the rock and closed her eyes, vanquishing the stress, her past and Quinn. The smooth surface of the rock, so unyielding in the winter cold, now soothed her with its warmth. She lay back, the sun dancing on her skin. If she didn't need to take Yedi with her, this would be the perfect place to let the talisman dance and take her home. Minutes melted into hours in the warm sunlight and it was only when the retreating sun dipped behind the trees that she roused herself.
It almost seemed a shame to leave for the stale rooms of the saloon. She rode Yedi at a lazy walk, wanting to absorb as much of the peace as she could. She returned to the livery, taking the time to brush Yedi thoroughly.
"Excuse me, ya seen the blacksmith 'round here?"
Trish jumped and recaptured her racing heart. "Do you mean Albert?"
"That no good smithy. I've told 'im before he better do the job right or else."
Trish turned her attention to the cowboy, feeling her heart skip. His vaguely familiar features and six-gun slung low at his hip weren't what caught her attention. He wore a brown vest under his oilskin. Could it be missing a button? She righted her stare, dropping her gaze to the ground.
"Ya daft, girl? Ya know where I can find 'im?"
Trish swallowed and gathered her wits. Assuming he had murdered Albert, he wouldn't ask for the dead man, much less return so blatantly to the scene. But if he had attacked Albert and assumed he had survived the attack, that might prove a very different story.
"Actually, I do." She gripped the horse brush in her hand. It wouldn't prove much of a weapon, but the closest thing to defend herself if the necessity arose.
"Well, where is he, girl?" the cowboy demanded.
"He's up the hill a ways," she answered, her mind racing.
"Damn him, that means I'll have to wait."
"What will you do if he finds you here?" Trish managed to keep her voice steady.
"Show him I mean business. He's cheated me for the last time."
She sensed the cowboy’s watchful glare as she set the brush in the tack box before leading Yedi to the pasture. The sound of his spurs followed her to the livery door. At the pasture, she dared to glance back at the livery. He stood, his hand on the large door, watching her. A smidgeon of fear wormed its way up her spine. The heel of a six-gun could break her skull open as easily as Albert's. She pulled herself up short. She didn't know that for sure, but it was plausible.
"This is silly, Yedi. Of course, he's watching me. What else would he do? It's not like he has a radio to listen to or a TV to watch. I'm letting my imagination get the best of me." She glanced at her clothing and rubbed Yedi's nose. "Besides, Zelda dresses like this to draw attention. It wouldn't be the same at home, but I guess she knows best because he's still watching. Oh heck, why can't I be dressed like Lucinda or Penelope?"
Yedi nickered.
"I know but it's blood-stained and that would draw a lot more attention, the kind I don't ever want. Hang in there, boy. I'll get us home soon." She inhaled, letting it out slowly and returned to the livery to hang Yedi's bridle.
"You one of Jackson's customers or is he one of yorns?" The cowboy drawled as if wanting to engage her in conversation.
Trish turned to face him, knowing she must learn the truth. Now seemed as good a time as any. She shrugged and wriggled to get the neckline of her camisole to drop over one shoulder and took a deep breath, pushing the warning in her gut aside. He hadn't recognized her…yet.
"Not exactly. What job was the smithy supposed to do for you?" she asked in a honeyed tone.
"He keeps puttin' shoes on my horse that don't stay on. He's gonna do the job right this time-- But this trip jus' got a bit more interestin' with you here." He smirked, revealing tobacco-stained teeth.
Trish knew the situation could become dangerous but smiled her best coquettish smile. "Maybe he does the job the way he does for a reason."
The cowboy eyed her. "And what might that be?"
"I don't know," she sashayed closer to him. The ruffle on the bottom of her skirt bumped against her legs as she moved toward him.
"You lookin'? I'm buyin'." He stood his ground but dropped his jaw as though he presumed it a seductive pose. His expression changed from one of frustration and anger to animalistic interest as he puffed out his chest.
"I wouldn't say what I'm looking for-- exactly." Her heart flipped to the pit of her stomach, warning her of impending danger. Her hand wavered in mid-air just long enough for him to grab her wrist.
"That bed of straw suits me just fine." He raked her over, making Quinn's similar appraisal feel like a gentle caress.
Trish hesitated, "I-- this isn't exactly what I had in mind."
'Ya sayin' ya'd rather have yer own bed. Nice and soft like," the cowboy snarled.
Trish acted quickly, pulling the oilskin aside as she stroked the cowboy's chest.
"Not exactly." Her answer lacked any hint of flirtation.
"Like those words, doncha, missy?"
"Not exactly." Trish moved her free hand up his chest to his shoulder.
"What do ya like?" He yanked her closer with one hand; his other firmly cradled her buttocks.
She hadn't expected to get manhandled. He smelled bad. She knew she couldn't get much closer. Looking down, she found that the vest had not lost a bone button. She stiffened, pulling back. He yanked her to him again, smothering her with a stale tobacco-laden kiss.
Never before had Trish appreciated the ability to throw her knee over a horse's back. Her knee came up hard, catching him squarely in the groin. He howled in agony, releasing her, clutching the pain as he dropped and rolled to his side.
"Not that. Exactly. Albert is dead, you swine." She hurried to leave the livery.
Trish shook her head. The cowboy hadn't recognized her any more than he had taken Albert's advice to have his horse shoed properly.
Trish hurried to the saloon and its friendly faces. She had things to do if she planned to return to her previous life, a life over one hundred years from today's future. Tinkling sounds of an out of tune piano brought her steps to a stuttered stop. Someone needed to learn how to play notes that resembled more music than the screeching of a barn owl. She scowled and decided to climb the outer steps to her room, hoping the noise would cease before she had to occupy the same room as the musician wanna-be. She eased the door shut, finding her stealth mode completely unnecessary. Caterwauling now accompanied the barn owl screech.
"For the love of--" Zelda stormed out of her room, bumping into Trish. "Good, yer here. Pierre went to a heap of trouble to get ya those ivorys. But ol' Granger needs to give 'em a rest. He's plumb roostered. Ya better put a wiggle on an' save us."
Trish gasped. "I didn't say I play the piano. I said that a piano would help with the entertainment."
Zelda snorted. "We, you an' me, are the entertainment. Don't look at me. I ain't touchin' that tinkling tombstone."
"I can't play-- I mean I don't--"
"If that don't take the rag off. Pierre's takin' a likin' to ya. Lettin' ya get off with not takin' the pokes and now gett
ing ya the ivorys. Albert's murder done put a spoke in the wheel and Pierre an' I are plannin' for ya to save the place. I'll get Granger off the ivorys, but ya better be quick about comin' down." Zelda bustled down the stairs, the feather in her hair bouncing with every step.
Trish slipped into her room and sagged back against the door. "What have I done?" Trish mourned behind her cupped hands. She slid to the floor, shaking her head. The screeching stopped. Trish wondered what bait Zelda had employed to draw Granger away. It didn't matter. What mattered was getting through an evening of involuntary entertainment by a three-year piano student and an out of tune piano.
She didn't pay close attention to her toilette. She instead drilled her memory bank for chords and tunes that had yet to be written and scored. At least no one would notice as long as she just kept playing. At least she hoped they wouldn't notice. Pierre better be pouring a lot of whiskey tonight.
Clenching her fingers repeatedly, Trish stepped out of her room and into the spotlight of the evening. She couldn't have felt less prepared. Her feet stalled on the upper landing. Her stomach jumped wildly around in her rib cage, crashing against her heart. Her breath stalled, caught in her throat. She scanned the waiting drinkers, hoping she didn't recognize any of them.
A smattering of clapping anchored a couple of catcalls. Trish felt the heat in her cheeks. Zelda stepped away from the bar, placing her fingers in her mouth and letting loose a loud whistle. Trish sensed the heat in her cheeks explode into a wash of color. Shaking knees hindered her descent to the saloon.
Trish looked up from the ivory keys, not to see who watched her but trying to remember yet another tune, wishing she played by ear. Of course, being able to play by ear meant she needed to remember what a particular piece of music sounded like without the guitars, synthesizers and drums.
"Ya play right nice, Trish. Don't recognize the tunes, but nice just the same." Quinn's compliment should have earned a smile. Instead, her fingers stalled and she scowled.
"Leave 'er be. Play that little moon song again," a regular complained from the poker game. Trish modulated the chord, playing what she could remember of "Moonriver" again to satisfy the request. She didn't sing this time, knowing Quinn listened. For some reason his being here, watching and listening, unnerved her.
"Yer audience commands. Maybe ya'll let me buy ya a drink?" She didn't answer Quinn, choosing instead to watch her fingers to the end of the song.
"A drink sounds good. Maybe Pierre has something harmless."
Quinn escorted her to the bar, his hand at her elbow.
Pierre met them there, his brow raised as if questioning them. "Are you done playin' for the evening, or just takin' a break?"
She watched the silent communication between Pierre and Quinn, suspecting it regarded her. She tapped the bar nervously, glancing from Pierre to Quinn and back again.
"This here songbird needs to wet her whistle."
Pierre reached for two clean shot glasses.
Trish put her hand up. "No whiskey for me."
"There's buttermilk in the back."
"You've got plenty of customers to take care of, Pierre. I'll get it myself." Trish smiled at her employer.
"Looks like yer customers ain't takin' too kindly to Quinn here cuttin' in." Pierre indicated a couple of cowpokes watching them intently.
"They're not my customers," Trish corrected.
"I'll walk with ya." Quinn dismissed Pierre with a friendly nod and again guided Trish by her elbow. The rival cowboys scowled at Quinn as the two of them weaved their way to Pierre's private quarters. The little room had even less light than the saloon. Quinn struck a match, lighting the lantern that always occupied the shelf near the door. Long shadows threaded from the chairs and table to the far wall, marking eerie paths.
Trish eyed the pitcher of buttermilk that sat in half a pail of water, wondering if it was even safe to consume. She knew it wouldn't be wise to drink milk and then sing. The milk would coat her throat and cause her to croak like a frog.
"Ain't ya gonna have some milk?" Quinn asked when she took a cup from the table and turned her attention to pumping water. Trish didn't answer, instead lifting the handle and thrusting it down several times to prime the pump. At last, clear water ran and she filled her cup.
"This." She lifted her cup. "This is what I'm thirsty for."
"Women," he said shaking his head.
"What? You never drink water?"
"Never know a man to pass on a whiskey for water."
She filled her cup again, offering it to him. "There's always a first time. Drink?"
He eyed the cup warily and took it from her hand, his fingers capturing hers for a brief moment. Holding the cup, he glimpsed at the contents as if expecting to find the frog she'd avoided by not drinking the buttermilk.
"Really, Quinn, it won't hurt you. It tastes quite good, in fact. Here." She stepped closer, cradling his hand and the cup in her own. Slowly, she guided the cup to his lips. "Just one sip. It isn't poison."
Quinn allowed her to press the cup to his lips, but there his tolerance waned. His free hand went to the small of her back while the cup in their hands found its way to the table. Trish stood her ground, unwilling to let him draw her closer.
She gazed at his eyes in the dimly lit room, wishing her own shadow didn't block the light. What did he intend? When he eased the pressure at her back, she slipped away. Moving toward the back door of the small living space, she pushed through it, inhaling the clean air. Quinn followed at her heels.
"Yer a flighty one tonight."
"I'm sorry. I just--" Words failed her. Her thoughts jumbled, tripping over themselves. She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to love her, but not as a whore, not like this. Would he believe her if she told him the truth? That was about the only alternative to letting this continue as she had. She turned to face him. The early moon shared little light. The night birds called, filling the night's stillness with their floating song. He touched her hair, loosening the hairpin slightly. His touch traveled at a sweetly slow pace from her hair to her ear lobe, then her cheek, yet the sensation of tingling delight traveled much faster, reaching her toes before retracing its path and settling in her stomach. She felt the calluses of his fingers glide across her chin bone.
Almost without thought, she moved closer to him. Her hands went to his chest, feeling the solid mass of muscle. His muscles were not those of modern men, sculpted and tightened to chiseled sharpness, but no doubt just as strong. She raised her eyes to his, seeing tenderness she didn't expect. Recognizing his warmth frightened her. She drew back but he didn't let her pull away.
"No, ya don't." He drew her closer.
A pair of drunken footsteps staggered around the corner of the saloon. "Whatcha doin' out here with the ta-art?" Granger staggered toward them. "The pia-- the pia--nos in there's," Granger sagged into them. Trish almost fell while trying to get out from the pinch of booze, sweat and grime. A whole week living in a saloon and the stench still turned her stomach. At least Quinn never smelled like he'd had too much to drink. She staggered away to see Quinn right the man.
"The privy's over there." Quinn corrected Granger's course.
Granger sagged back into Quinn while fumbling with his pants. Trish couldn't bear the sight and hurried around the corner, planning to race up the steps.
The steps were no shelter. Zelda and her latest john stood at the door at the top of the steps. "Come on, honey. I didn't mean anythin' by it."
"Honey," Zelda retorted. "You just take your shanks mare on down those steps. I ain't takin' that from no poke at any price."
A pair of boots with the spurs attached hit the ground several feet away.
"Zelda, honey, whadda do that fer?"
"Take your spurs to some bronc, not my hind side." Zelda's voice lacked its usual humor. The offender scampered down the steps barefooted. Trish shrank back into the shadows. The cowboy raked his boots off the ground and, hopping on one foot then the other, ma
naged to get his boots on.
Trish waited and watched from her hiding spot. She could never do what Zelda did. Quinn wore spurs. Could that be where their differences began?
The Talisman - Crisscross Page 37
