Some of the women had recovered enough to help. One of these came to join Samantha now. Handing her a water pitcher, she began to talk idly. It took Sam a few minutes before she realized the direction the conversation was taking.
"Don't you think a town like this could use a schoolteacher? I haven't seen many children around, but perhaps some of the men could use some learning?"
The woman was pretty, blond, and well-rounded. Sam didn't think school-teaching was exactly what she had in mind. She scowled and poured another cup of water and held it to her patient's mouth. "There aren't any children here at all, except my cousin. Talbott owns this town. He won't pay a teacher to stay and teach his men."
The woman's eyes strayed to the door leading upstairs. "He's rather a forceful man, isn't he?"
Sam snorted. "That's a polite way of putting it. Where were you people headed?" It was time to change the subject.
"We were going to start our own community, one where everybody lived by the Scriptures. Reverend Hayes agreed to lead the flock to the promised land, but it doesn't look very promising to me. I thought we were going where the sun always shines and we would never be cold."
Sam shrugged and moved with her to the next patient. "I hear it's like that down in the valley. You just haven't gone far enough."
"I think I've gone about as far as I want to with this bunch," she announced through tightened lips. "My sister is the one who belongs to the good reverend's flock, not me. I just came because it sounded like a better life than the old one, but I'm tired of being preached at."
The woman didn't have to clarify. Sam had seen it all before. Pretty women couldn't help but flirt. Men couldn't help but flirt back. Two thousand miles with the same limited number of people produced a bad set of circumstances for flirting, especially if most of the men were married. A town full of single men was just what the schoolteacher needed.
"There's no place to stay here," Sam reminded her. "You could take a room in the hotel if Talbott would let you, but he hates women."
"Hates women?" The teacher looked surprised. "He didn't look like a man who hates women to me. Women are the only people in this room he treats with respect."
"Yeah, well, that's the queer thing about Talbott. If he doesn't know what else to do with you, he treats you respectfully and hopes you'll go away."
The woman's laughter was annoyingly cheerful. "He obviously knows what to do with you. Are you his sister?"
It was really one insult too many for this day. Sam contemplated dumping the contents of the pitcher over the woman's head, but she refused to lower herself to Sloan's level and take her irritation out on the innocent. She managed a tight smile and replied, "No, I'm the hate of his life," and walked away.
She had wanted to bring women into this community, dadgum it. Why in hell was she discouraging the first one to show an interest? It was quite contrary of her. She would have to make a point of talking to all the women. Wouldn't it serve Talbott right if an entire religious community decided to settle right here?
By the time she worked her way around the room, she had talked to everyone including a butcher, a baker, and a candlestick maker, she was certain. A carpenter was interested, but he'd lost his wife on the journey. A couple of the younger men were interested in the mines. The farming families meant to move on. A few unattached females were wavering in the face of a town full of single men. Only two widows had children, but that would be a start.
Sam was feeling a little more confident by the time she left the hotel that evening. What could Talbott do if the wagon train moved on and left some folks behind? He couldn't make women and children walk down the mountain. She didn't think he would even try. She was beginning to think Sloan Talbott was more bark than bite. Besides, it would serve the surly bastard right.
Outside, Injun Joe leaned against the porch post as if he'd never moved all day. He gave Samantha's attire a cursory look, grunted, and lifted his bottle to his lips. Wiping his mouth off with his sleeve, he commented, "You'll not win in that getup."
She had already noticed that Joe's grammar slipped with his level of drunkenness. She was amazed that Talbott put up with this town full of sots. She didn't think he was given to drinking much himself. She wasn't certain why anyone would hire a drunken gunfighter, either, but Joe was kind in his own odd way.
She gave him a questioning look. "Win?"
Joe gave her a look of disgust. "You don't know nothin' about nothin', do you? You didn't even see him lookin' at that pretty little scrap of lace you were wearin' under your clothes. Hell, give a man a sight of a little lace, and he comes grovelin'. And what do you do when you have the opportunity to bring him to his knees? You wear trousers under that getup. He's got you beat hands down now. He's got you coverin' up that sassy little rear he's been droolin' over, and you make it easy for him by coverin' up your legs. Sometimes, I think you ain't got no sense a'tall."
He staggered back into the hotel then, leaving Samantha to stare after him in sheer astonishment.
Was he talking about Sloan Talbott? Drooling? Over her?
The man had obviously pickled his brain.
Chapter Eleven
Samantha watched the activity in the plaza outside her window. It was past dawn, and the settlers were making coffee over their fires. Already a few of the wagons had gone down the mountain, looking for a better place to stay. The ones remaining were the ones who still had sick in the hotel. If somebody didn't do something soon, the entire train would go, leaving them back where they started—four women against a town of men.
Sloan Talbott had been less than encouraging to the few tentative offers the settlers had made, she knew. The blacksmith had admired the empty smithy, and he was a married man with two children. One of the men who had already been down to the valley and back was talking about setting up a general store inside the derelict trading post. These were civilized people, people accustomed to buying and selling, who wanted barbers and woodworkers and schoolteachers, not the riffraff Talbott fostered. These were the kind of people who would make a town.
And no one was making any effort to persuade them to stay.
As Sam watched, Sloan stepped out on the gallery to gaze sourly at the plaza full of wagons and people milling in his muddy front yard. He had shaved his beard and donned full dress garb again, as if his gentlemanly clothes were a suit of armor to ward off evil. She wondered whom he got to starch and iron that little frill on his shirt. She frowned when she caught the schoolteacher gazing up at him. No doubt a woman like that would gladly perform those little services for him, among others.
Joe's words of the previous evening came back to her. They had never really left her mind. They'd woven their way in and out of her sleep all night. Give a man a sight of a little lace, he'd said. He'd said she had a sassy little rear. What was a "sassy little rear," and how did one know if she had one? She wasn't used to thinking of herself as the kind of woman men liked to look at. The twins were the ones men liked. Joe had to be more drunk than she thought.
But if she had to wear a dress to show she honored the bet, why shouldn't she experiment a little? Talbott hadn't shown much interest in the twins. He wasn't even looking at the schoolteacher now, although the woman was doing everything within her power to attract his attention. Sam couldn't imagine him being interested in a tall skinny woman like herself if he wasn't interested in the twins or the schoolteacher, but she didn't have to whistle and "yahoo" to get his attention. She could kick his shins just as well in skirts as in pants.
And if she could distract him once she got his attention, maybe she could persuade him into considering letting these people stay. The idea was as far-fetched as they came, but it couldn't hurt any to try.
Bernadette made a sleepy protest when Sam dragged her out of bed, but once she understood that her older sister actually meant to dress herself up in female regalia, she became demonstratively cooperative. The women of the Neely family had been trying to get Sam into dresses for years
.
"We'll have to start with your Sunday gown until we can let the hem out of one of ours," Bernie decided as she scanned Sam's limited wardrobe. "Our crinolines will be too short, too, but that won't matter so much. You'd never keep them out of the mud otherwise. You'll need stockings. Let me find some stockings."
She went sailing off to the room she shared with Harriet, leaving Sam to gaze with dismay at the array of feminine finery lined up across her bed.
The frilly chemises and drawers were her own. Just because she wore denim didn't mean she didn't like lace. It just meant that denim was more practical for her everyday chores. She didn't know who would chop the wood and hunt for meat while she wore this gear, but a wager was a wager.
By the time she had on chemise and drawers and stockings and the old-fashioned petticoat she preferred to crinoline and hoops, Samantha was immensely grateful to her father for forbidding corsets. The twins had occasionally raised complaints that their waists were unfashionably wide without them, but her father had merely recited the dire maladies that would occur should they choose to squash their internal organs into sausages. That had shut up all further complaints until they needed reminding again. Sam had never given a thought to the size of her waist.
She gave it a thought now as she pulled the taffeta over her head. The gown would have to be green, she grumbled, but it was the only dress even remotely likely to fit. As Bernadette pulled the hooks at the back, Samantha took a deep breath and prayed it would close. She hadn't worn it since well before they'd left Tennessee.
The waist wasn't a problem. She'd apparently lost weight in the months of traveling. But now that Bernie fastened it, Sam remembered why she hadn't worn it much even back home. She had outgrown the bodice years ago and never bothered to replace it. She took another deep breath and let her sister fasten the top hook. When she breathed out again, she thought she now knew how a sausage felt.
Bernadette looked skeptically at the way the gathered material pulled taut across Samantha's breasts. The neckline was high, and Samantha had chosen a bodice design which hid her bosom beneath loose folds of cloth falling from her shoulders and gathering at her waist—much as if she were garbed in a shawl. But it wasn't enough. Beneath those loose folds Sam's breasts strained at the slick material.
Both women gave sighs of resignation as they confronted the mirror in their mother's room. Sam would never be a fashionable lady. They could brush her bright red curls into rough ringlets over her ears if they pulled and pinned and prayed and made secure knots in the ribbons. The three rows of taffeta flounces on the skirt disguised some of her height and slenderness. The gathered bodice gave some credence to womanly curves. But they both knew the moment she moved it would be like looking at a man walking in woman's clothes.
"It will have to do, Bernie. You'd need a magic wand to do better. Maybe when Talbott sees me in this, he'll order me back to pants." Sam didn't really believe that. She figured he was more likely to enjoy how ridiculous she looked and make her suffer. But she had to try.
She figured her mission would be more successful if she could be one of those petite misses with shiny curls peeping out from beneath a demure little hat, but she had to make do with what she was given—and that was precious little. Lifting up her rustling skirt and petticoat, Sam strode out of the house and toward the hotel.
Men came out of the wagons to stare. By the time she crossed the plaza, they were pouring out of every nook and cranny in town. She'd think they'd never seen a woman before, but the town currently crawled with them. Somehow, this was all Sloan's fault. She would make him pay one day, just see if she didn't.
The epidemic had dwindled until all the patients once more filled just the saloon. Ramsey was working with one of the patients now, but Sloan wasn't anywhere in sight. Alice Neely gave her oldest daughter's attire a speculative look, but she was apparently too tired to question. Sam sent her mother back to the house to rest.
Clara, the schoolteacher, arrived to lend a hand. She so obviously looked for Sloan that Sam had to grit her teeth. If she ever caught herself being that obvious, she was going to burn this dress and to hell with the wager. She threw herself into her chores with more efficiency and ignored the comings and goings from the sickroom.
Having decided a little talk with the wagon master would persuade his unwanted visitors to move on, Sloan was on his way outside when he halted to inspect the sickroom. He'd threatened Ramsey with banishment from the saloon if he didn't stay sober and help. The disease was reaching the last stages of its course now, and there wasn't anything anyone could do but ease the pain. They didn't need Sloan in there for that. But he couldn't help stopping, just to see how they fared.
His gaze instantly took notice of the tall figure in emerald silk taffeta. Silk wasn't a material frequently employed in hospital rooms. The full petticoat and large flounces were ridiculously useless in a room packed solid with pallets with scarce inches to spare between. The other women had worn old cottons and let them drag on the floor rather than wear their crinolines in here. This woman obviously had more curves than brains he noted as she bent to examine a patient, giving him a fine view of a slender waist and well-turned ankles encased in stockings.
When she straightened and turned around, Sloan employed himself admiring the. anterior view. The full skirt belled out from a tiny waist, making it impossible to guess the actual curve of her hips, but he had no trouble determining the fullness of her breasts beneath that thin material. She wasn't overdeveloped, but she certainly wasn't shy in that department either. She knew how to make the best of her assets, he'd give her that.
He let his gaze drift upward to determine if there was any more worth watching. He felt as if he'd been socked in his midriff when a pair of emerald fires finally turned and focused on him. Samantha!
It wasn't possible. His gaze hastily slid downward, checking off the rounded breasts, the tiny waist, the flounced skirt—full feminine attributes. His gaze returned to her face. Samantha's flashing eyes still regarded him as if he were a male dog who had just used her leg as a watering post. Nobody else ever looked at him like that.
He grinned. He would no doubt crack his face after so much disuse, but he grinned. He couldn't help it. The long, tall tomboy in skirts. Green ones. Sloan stepped into the room and walked around her to admire the sight. She stood stiffly for his inspection, and he could see ire in the rigidness of her spine. No soft woman this, despite the disguise. She was going to kill him. And he was going to enjoy every minute of it.
"Well, you clean up pretty good for a kid," he admitted with a chuckle.
"I'm not a kid. I'll have you know I'm twenty-four and as close to an old maid as you'll ever meet."
He tried not to laugh outright. Old maid! Mermaid, maybe, rising from a sea of green froth, but there was nothing old about her. Probably nothing maid about her either, but that was a technicality he didn't care to entertain. He pulled experimentally at the wide loose sleeves.
"Going to be hard not to get tangled in a gun with these." He kicked aside a few acres of skirt and petticoat as he returned to stand in front of her again. "Haven't you got anything more suitable for working in here? You'll smother the patients."
If looks could kill, he'd have died twice over by now, Sloan surmised, but that didn't stop him from admiring the front of her bodice again. He'd seen some of what she disguised under all that silk, but somehow it looked even more enticing when wrapped up like a Christmas package. He wanted to untie the bow.
"I've got pants," she informed him flatly. "You want me to be practical, I'll wear pants."
Sloan couldn't believe he heard himself chuckling. He couldn't remember a time when he'd ever felt better. He had the little termagant trussed up like a turkey, and he liked it that way. He held out his arm, and when she didn't respond as required, he grabbed her hand and curled her fingers around his elbow.
"I'm sure you'll figure out how to be practical and keep our wager once you apply your mind to it.
Let's go visiting, shall we?"
Samantha decided killing wasn't good enough for him. Instant death was too easy. He needed to suffer first. He needed to suffer for a long, long time. She was certain she would think of any number of suitable tortures just as soon as she got away from him. Right now, walking at his side and holding his arm like this, she couldn't think of anything but a desire for death—hers or his, whichever came first.
Injun Joe wasn't at his post, but plenty of other people hung around to watch as Sloan Talbott escorted the fancified tomboy into the street. Sam tried not to cringe as men hooted or stared. She knew they would have done the same if Sloan had been the one to lose the wager. Everybody liked a good joke, and she was a big one without a doubt.
Clara came scurrying after her, smiling and saying what a lovely couple they made. Sam rolled her eyes when the schoolteacher quickly turned her attention to Sloan. Beside her, she heard one of the men snicker, but Sloan seemed quite intent on listening to the woman's breathless chatter.
"A school, Miss Whitaker? You think my men would like a school? How original of you. Have you discussed it with them?"
Samantha hid her smile. Sloan might be listening, but she knew sarcasm when she heard it. If the pretty Miss Whitaker didn't watch out, he'd slice her to ribbons with his vicious tongue. Not that the schoolteacher was likely to notice right away. He was so quick, so incisive, that she would probably just fall apart in a dozen pieces before she knew she'd been injured. Samantha tugged Sloan's arm and nodded in the direction of the young blacksmith. "You need to meet Thomas Craycraft. The hotel needs iron door hinges instead of those rotting leather ones. He says he can make them in no time."
Sloan scowled and walked away from the schoolteacher without a word of parting, heading directly for the well-muscled young man Samantha had pointed out. Accustomed to Sloan's tempers, Sam merely hurried to keep up with him.
Denim and Lace Page 9
