Denim and Lace

by Rice, Patricia

  "My mother won't let me go anywhere with you." She avoided the touchy subject, turning it to a more pertinent one.

  "You're what? Twenty-five? You can go anywhere you want. You just don't want to risk her disapproval."

  Sam grimaced. "All right, I don't want to risk her disapproval. I want to find my father, but I don't want to lose my mother in return."

  "I'll talk to her."

  She waited for him to say more, but he seemed to think that was all there was to it. He'd talk to her, and everything would be fine. Lord, but the man was a conceited ass. She almost hoped her mother would throw him out on his face. Almost. The rest of her was growing excited about finding her father and terrified over an experience she'd never thought to face.

  When Sam didn't ask any more questions, Sloan said nothing else. They strolled back into town in silence. They certainly didn't resemble a courting couple, nor could they be compared to good friends out hunting together. There was absolutely nothing between them but this insane bargain they forged together. Sam tried to force herself to see the impracticalities of it, but she couldn't get past Sloan's physical presence. As long as he was there, she wanted to feel his kisses. She wanted to feel a great deal more than that. The thought made her blush.

  Sloan happened to glance down at the same time as the pink suffused her cheeks. He grinned at this display of her innocence. At her age, he didn't figure she was completely innocent, but she certainly wasn't as experienced as the widow. The war would have changed a lot of things for women in the South. He wondered just precisely what went through her head right now, but he was better off not knowing. The less he knew about her, the more impersonal he could keep this.

  "You won't need to worry about any unwanted results from this, you know. I'm experienced at preventing conception."

  The pink turned a deeper shade of rose, but she nodded curtly. "If we go soon, it will be the best time of the month. My father read a medical tract on the subject, and he and my mother have experimented with the precepts. They didn't plan twins, but they planned the distance between our births."

  Sloan made a mental blasphemous curse. Was there anything Neely hadn't experimented with? Did he share all his experiments with his eccentric daughter? He could almost wager her father hadn't explained this particular experiment to the twins.

  "Fine. Will tomorrow be too soon?"

  She cast him a sideways glance. "One night, and only after you've set someone on my father's trail?"

  "Let's say twenty-four hours. It's been a long time for me." Sloan said that steadily, as if the notion didn't send his blood racing and his heart pounding. He was ready to drag her off right now.

  The red was rapidly receding from her cheeks. She looked pale as she nodded agreement. "Twenty-four hours. I didn't think it possible, but if you say so . . ."

  "I say so." He caught her elbow as they reached the porch to the hacienda. "Go play with your arbor. I'm going to have a talk with your mother."

  Sam didn't want to leave. She wanted to hear what he could possibly say to her mother to persuade her to let one of her daughters wander off for who-knew-how-long with a man. At sight of the irritated tic in Sloan's jaw muscle, she set her lips and marched off.

  Sloan let himself in the front door. Since the Neelys had turned the parlor into a restaurant, people came and went as they needed. He found a couple of his men in there now, consuming bowls of soup as if they'd never seen the like before. He felt his stomach rumble with hunger and conceded a decent meal wouldn't be amiss. But he had business to attend to first.

  He crossed the room and went down the hall to the kitchen. The woman inside looked up with impatience, then shoved a straying strand of hair from her brow as she recognized him.

  Sloan didn't bother with the preliminaries. "Sam and I are going down to Ariposa tomorrow to look for her father."

  Alice Neely gave him a hard look that encompassed his unshaven face, his muddy boots, and the general disarray of his unpressed clothes. He hadn't bothered changing into anything appropriate when he'd left his work in the yard. She made him feel every social transgression before she answered.

  "Does Sam know this?"

  He almost laughed at her tone. She didn't trust him any more than her daughter did. He merely made a curt nod. "We're agreed."

  Her lips pressed together in a thin line of disapproval, but she merely replied, "You're both grown people. I can't stop you."

  He'd forgotten what it was like to have a mother who could make him feel two inches small with just a look. Alice Neely conveyed a whole book more than just that in her tone. If he harmed one hair on her daughter's head, she would no doubt stomp his face in. But she would never know what Samantha didn't tell, so he wouldn't lose sleep over it.

  "I'll bring her back as soon as we find out something."

  "I'm sure you will," she said dryly. "Just make certain you're around in another nine months to deal with any consequences."

  "There won't be any consequences. You raised your daughters right." Right for him, anyway.

  As if she could read his mind, she shook her head. "I raised them to know their own minds. You'd best know yours."

  With that, she turned back to the pot she was stirring, effectively dismissing him.

  Deciding he wasn't hungry anymore, Sloan left the hacienda. Alice Neely's parting words tolled like harbingers of doom. He'd best know his own mind. Of course he knew his own mind. He wanted a clean, decent woman who came without any strings attached. He'd been too long without releasing his baser urges. Once he'd satisfied those urges and got rid of his obsession with a long-legged female in denims, he could get something done.

  In the meantime, he'd better make a few preparations for his journey out of the mountains. This might be just his chance to trap a killer.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Don't let anyone see you leave town. Follow us at a discreet distance. Give him time to think he's safe." Sloan slung his saddlebags over his horse and bent to check the girth straps.

  Joe polished his gun and looked irritated. "I've been doing this a hell of a lot longer than you, son. I just don't like your taking the woman with you. That complicates things."

  Sloan straightened the saddle blanket and double-checked the supplies in his bags again. "Women always complicate things. That's their place in life. I'll make sure she takes her rifle along."

  Joe grunted his opinion of that, but didn't offer it aloud.

  ***

  Sam glared at the mirror in irritation and settled the problem of her unruly hair by pulling a hat over it. Her mother came in, took one look at her attire, and swept the hat from her head.

  "You can't go into town looking like that, Samantha Susan. Go put a dress on now, before you shame us all."

  Sam glanced down at her very best shirt and trousers and shook her head. "This will have to do. I'm not riding down a mountain in a dress. Besides, I don't have a sidesaddle."

  Her mother bit her bottom lip and busied herself searching through the wardrobe. "If the gown is long enough, you won't need a sidesaddle. Just wear your high boots. At least you'll look halfway decent when you get to town. I don't know what your father is going to say as it is. This is entirely improper."

  Sam turned and caught her mother hiding her head in the wardrobe. She felt a tug of something uncomfortable—not precisely guilt, but something akin to it. She was a tremendous disappointment to both her parents, she knew. She could never be the son her father wanted, and never be the kind of lady her mother thought she ought to be. And now she was about to do something so reprehensible that she couldn't even say it to herself and certainly not to her mother. Her mother was trying hard not to weep at her unladylike tendencies, at what she must perceive to be her failure to raise her daughter properly, and Sam wasn't making it any easier for her.

  She came up behind her mother and gave her a hug. "It's a long way into town. Why don't I take a dress and keep it in my bag until we're almost there? Then I can pu
t it on before I ride into town and it will look good as new."

  Her mother nodded and pulled out a gown Samantha had shoved to the back. "Maybe you better take two gowns, dear. You don't know how long you'll be gone."

  Sam carefully folded the gowns, refraining from reminding her mother that she wouldn't have any petticoats to go under them. She could just see herself riding down the mountain, pulling a cartload of crinolines if she wasn't careful. "We won't be gone but a few days, depending on the weather. Sloan says he won't go any farther than Ariposa."

  Tears rimmed her mother's eyes when she turned to meet Sam's gaze, but she only nodded a silent agreement. A person would think she was going off to be married and never coming back the way her mother carried on.

  Uneasily, hoping Sloan hadn't said something unconscionable, Sam checked her image in the mirror once more. There wasn't anything she could do to make herself beautiful. She would just have to settle for clean and neat. Deciding she'd accomplished that much, she set her hat at an angle, kissed her mother's cheek, and picked up her saddlebags. It was much easier to walk out if she just thought of herself as going to find her father. What happened along the way was irrelevant.

  Sloan was already leading their horses out of the stable.

  She'd brought one of her father's carefully bred mares out here, and the animal tossed her mane restlessly in the sunlight. Gallant hadn't received anywhere near the exercise she should have these last weeks. Sam just hoped Sloan was ready for a race down the mountain. The horse wouldn't be in a mood for walking.

  She fed Gallant an apple and soothed her with words while Sloan adjusted her gear. His breath frosted in the dawn air as he worked, and Sam couldn't help watching him. He moved with precision and efficiency, checking every detail with admirable thoroughness. While her mind wandered to the beauty of frost-trimmed branches, the sensual heat of the animals in their care, the excitement of knowing they would soon be alone together, he seemed concerned only with the security of their gear and the weight of their supplies.

  While her mind wandered, Sam also noted the way Sloan's hat sat down over his eyes, the way his lambskin coat stretched over his shoulders, and the powerful bulge of his thighs as he bent to check beneath her horse. She'd never noticed these things in a man before, and they made her stomach roil nervously. For the first time, she recognized the immense distance between them. Sloan was probably ten years older than herself or more, and from the looks of him, he'd packed those years with experiences she would never know. She'd led a relatively sheltered life until she'd come out here. She had no idea what kind of life Sloan had led. For all she knew, he could be a convicted murderer.

  She was absolutely, completely, utterly out of her mind. By the time she reached this conclusion, Sloan was done with his inspection and waited impatiently for her to mount.

  When she just stared at him, he grumbled, "You want a lift?"

  She hadn't needed help mounting a horse since she was knee high to a grasshopper. She gave him a disdainful look, placed her toe in the stirrup, and swung up gracefully. If she couldn't do much of anything else, she could ride a horse with style.

  It gave her considerable pleasure to see the admiration flickering briefly in Sloan's eyes as he watched. She might not be beautiful, but she had one or two other assets.

  She hauled on Gallant's reins as she wheeled impatiently. She saw Doc Ramsey watching through bleary eyes from his windows. The blacksmith was already lighting his fires for the day, and he stopped to wave. A few of the millworkers headed out for the mill, and they halted to watch as Sloan mounted his horse. Sam turned to wave farewell to her mother and the twins, then set Gallant to the road. She saw no point in reining her in forever.

  She heard Sloan galloping behind her. She imagined he was swearing at her for not waiting for him to lead the way, but only one road led out of here, and she didn't have any difficulty following it. If he thought he was gaining some submissive female, he might as well learn the truth right up front.

  The town had been built at the top of an open slope, and it was safe enough to let the animals have their heads as they raced across the field. Sloan's animal soon passed her by, but Sam didn't care. She hadn't actually been racing so much as enjoying the wind in her hair. He'd know it if she decided to race him.

  But if they had a long journey ahead, it was better to pace their mounts. She fell into a trot when Sloan did. The path narrowed up ahead anyway.

  They had nothing in common to talk about. Sam wasn't much at small talk in the best of situations, and she wouldn't classify this as one of her better social occasions. Sloan didn't seem prepared to help her out any. He'd barely grunted more than a brief acknowledgment of her presence.

  "Where you from originally?" she finally asked, just because she thought something ought to be said.

  He didn't even look at her. "Boston."

  Boston. He might as well have said London, England. She knew absolutely nothing about Boston, except it was probably a pretty fancy place compared to Spring Creek, Tennessee.

  "How long have you been out here?"

  "Long enough."

  She had an apple in her saddlebags. Maybe if she threw it at his head he'd pay attention. Shooting him seemed a little drastic. "Are you always this voluble or do I just bring it out?" she asked sarcastically.

  Sloan swung his head long enough to take note of her expression, then returned his concentration to the road ahead. "You've got a damned annoying mouth on you, you know that, don't you?"

  She wouldn't waste the apple. A good rock would suffice. Sam's lips turned up in a malicious smile, and she began to whistle. She couldn't whistle worth a tinker's damn. It should be interesting to see how long it took to break down his taciturnity.

  She could see Sloan's shoulders hunch in irritation as they threaded their horses through a mound of boulders. He tried to ride farther ahead, but she kept her horse right on the tail of his. She whistled a little louder and admired the cascade of pines down the mountainside. Patches of snow filled the shaded areas between, but the sun was doing its best to melt it off everywhere else.

  "Will you stop that damned caterwauling?" he finally snarled.

  "Woke up on the wrong side of the bed, did we?" she asked, undisturbed. "I can see we're destined to have a lovely time of it. I suppose you're of the 'slam, bam' school without even the 'thank you, ma'am,' after."

  He turned and glared at her. "What the hell are you talking about?"

  Sam shrugged. "Artistic perceptions. Do you read, Mr. Talbott?"

  Mouth tightening in a grim line, Sloan slowed his horse until she rode beside him. "You're going to irritate me until I talk, aren't you?"

  "How very perceptive of you. You may choose the topic if you prefer." Samantha attempted to maintain her pose of insouciance, but Sloan was even more impressively powerful on horseback than on foot. She almost regretted attracting his attention.

  "Since I don't suppose you know anything about the market price of lumber or demand for quicksilver, we're more or less committed to personal topics, aren't we?"

  The man could be articulate when he wanted to, she noted grudgingly. "It seems that way. I don't suppose you know much about farming or breeding horses or anything like that."

  "Not a thing." He gave her a quick glance. "If you've really got your heart set on farming, you'd do much better down in the valley. The climate and soil have to be better."

  Sam grinned at this obvious ploy. "Maybe so, but land costs money. I've got enough to buy a little lumber, some seed and grafts and things, but not enough to buy land. My father must have decided the land he bought up the mountain was a better deal for his money. I've got to take what he gives me."

  "He can't give you what doesn't belong to him. I own this side of the mountain. I don't know where in hell he thinks he's bought a farm, but if it's anywhere on this side, it's mine."

  "We can't very well argue the point until we find him, can we?"

  "Have you got a deed?
"

  Samantha squirmed in her saddle and stared straight ahead. "It wouldn't be very wise of me to admit it if I did, would it? You might try some reprehensible means to separate me from it."

  He gave a snort of exasperation. "I don't have to separate you from it. If the land's not on my side of the mountain, I don't need the blamed thing. If it is on my side, the deed's invalid. I just asked because deeds generally contain the coordinates of the land. It would help to figure out where your farm is if I could see the deed."

  She considered that for a moment. "There's a description," she admitted. "It's not a very scientific description. It mentions rock walls and a boulder shaped like a hatchet and things like that. My father included what he thought were the approximate coordinates, but he didn't have adequate equipment with him and I can't read surveyor's reports. I've been looking around and haven't found anything to meet the description yet. I just thought I'd wait until spring and explore a little farther afield."

  "When we get back, give me the descriptions. Maybe I can make something of them. But I'm warning you, there are a lot of spurious deeds floating around out here. The Mexicans were lax about property lines and keeping records and so forth. A lot of them have been selling these crazy deeds that mean nothing in any court of law. Your father may have fallen victim to one of those bandits."

  Sam stiffened her shoulders. "My father is an extremely intelligent man and an excellent judge of character. He wouldn't waste his time or money on anything any less than legitimate."

  "He tried to tell me what we're calling Mt. Whitney isn't the highest peak," he warned her. "He also preached that the Indians were the actual owners of the land, and we ought to negotiate with them instead of the Spaniards."

  "I don't know anything about Mt. Whitney, but he's probably right about the Indians. We had the same trouble back in Tennessee, and I must say the United States government has never acted honorably in their behalf. I daresay the same sort of things happened out here, only the Spanish were probably the first to walk all over the Indian hunting grounds."