"Drunken ex-priest," Riding Eagle clarified. "Because Clark was. He knows you're not really married now also. As does Sloan's brother and sister-in-law, of course. Clark sought them out, too, but I was ahead of him. Matthew Montgomery is an intelligent man. He expressed great surprise at seeing a man called Harry Anderson so far from Boston. He told him he'd shoot him if he ever set foot on his land again. And he escorted him out of town at gunpoint without telling Anderson anything he wanted to know. Am I going too fast for you?"
"No, you're doing just fine. Did Matthew have any idea what this Anderson-Clark person was after?"
Riding Eagle gave her a puzzled look. "You really don't mind that Talbott lied to you about the priest?"
"Of course I mind. I contemplated shooting off certain vulnerable parts of his anatomy, but Sloan and I understand each other. He didn't take anything I hadn't offered. The whole thing would have blown over if some of his cronies hadn't got nosy and spread the word faster than we could shut them up. When I learned we weren't married, I told him to back off and he did. Not that any of this is any of your business, of course."
"Of course." He sipped his coffee and eyed her contemplatively. "I suppose you would go after the vulnerable part of any man's anatomy who would try to do the same to one of your sisters, wouldn't you?"
"Of course," she answered complacently. "My sisters are more gently bred than I am. They couldn't shoot as accurately as I can."
He gave a snort of disbelief. "Your sister Harriet is the stubbornest female I've ever met in my life. She might not wield knives and firearms, but I wouldn't put a hot poker in her reach when she's angry."
Sam shrugged. "I wouldn't put one in reach of any woman when she's angry. Or any man, for all that matters. Did you learn anything else besides our personal secrets while you were out there? Where's Anderson now?"
"He's in San Francisco, talking to a lawyer. A paleface like Talbott is more likely to get information out of a lawyer than a 'breed like me. As far as I can tell, Anderson hasn't tried to hire any more killers. He does seem to know a great deal about the mine and everything else Talbott owns."
"Not good." The heavy clouds outside seemed to thicken and throw a pall over the room as Sam crossed her hands in her lap and looked out over the garden. "I don't suppose you know anyone who would kill Anderson, do you?"
"I'll thank you to remember I'm a Harvard graduate and not a savage, ma'am," he answered dryly.
"That's a lot of bull," she said without inflection, not looking at him. "But you've answered the question. Why don't you go say hello to Harriet? She's at the store, but I'll warn you she won't be quite as amenable as before. Some man attacked her after you left last time. She thinks men are lower than chicken droppings right now."
Giving a violent curse, the man calling himself Riding Eagle strode rapidly out of the kitchen.
Sam remained where she was, replaying everything she'd learned.
Her father was alive and ill.
Sloan was in big trouble.
What should she do now? Track Hawk and her father into Mexico or stand by Sloan's side?
It was difficult turning her back on the man she'd adored all her life for a man who had turned his back on her. But sometimes a woman had to make the decision to leave her home and family for the man she loved, regardless of whether she loved rightly or wrongly.
Sam knew that. Now she had to make herself act upon it.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Sam assumed Riding Eagle went up the mountain to find Sloan after Harriet wouldn't give him the time of day. All she knew for certain was that Sloan came riding down out of the hills the next day, and Harriet wouldn't even mention Riding Eagle's existence.
Sam made no effort to hunt Sloan down when he returned. She saw men coming and going from his office. She saw men leave town to go down the mountain. She saw Joe bringing him food from her mother's restaurant. She didn't see Sloan.
Her pots of herbs in the kitchen were growing very nicely. The geraniums hadn't come up yet. She watered them both, then began papering the shelves in the cupboard. The place really could use a china cabinet and some china. She wondered what Sloan would do if she ordered them.
On the first sunny day after Sloan's return, Sam started work on the kitchen garden. She kept her rifle on hand at all times these days, but when her hands were occupied with a hoe, she wore her father's gun belt. She wasn't much of an expert with the Colts, but Joe taught her when he had time.
"That doesn't look like more than rocky sand. How are you going to grow anything in it?"
The voice didn't catch Sam entirely by surprise. She'd known the instant Sloan had ventured out. She just hadn't expected him to speak to her. She continued her hoeing.
"Compost. Manure. This is good sandy soil, not like the clay back home. Once I add a few nutrients and some water, it will grow anything. The main problem is the number of growing days. I don't know when the first and last frosts come out here."
"It varies. We're not so far up the mountain that it snows in June, but it doesn't necessarily get real warm either."
Sam could tell from his voice that he was keeping his distance. It didn't matter. Just knowing he was here and talking to her made her sing silent hallelujahs. She wanted to keep him talking forever.
Who was she fooling? She wanted Sloan to come over and haul her into his arms and make mad, passionate love to her. Talking was a poor substitute. Her knees went weak at just the thought.
She continued hoeing, keeping her back to him. "That's all right. I can grow a lot of things in cool weather. I'm thinking of putting out the lettuce and pea seeds now. I wish I had a better source of water than the town pump."
"I've been thinking of having plumbing installed in the hotel. I could have a pump put out here if you like."
Sam couldn't stand it any longer. She rested the hoe on the ground and turned to look at him.
It was a good thing she had the hoe handle for support. He looked marvelous. He looked awful. He wore his fanciest frock coat and frilled shirt and embroidered vest. The dark color of the coat suited his dark coloring. The white of his shirt emphasized the bronze of his sun- and wind-burned face. But he looked leaner, his cheeks more hollow, his features sterner. There was a fading bruise on one cheek, and when he stepped forward, he limped. She didn't know what he'd been doing to himself these last weeks, but he hadn't been enjoying them.
He couldn't disguise the fire in his eyes though. It helped some to know he was burning up inside just as much as she was. Gone were the days of the icy Sloan Talbott. He looked as if he'd gone to hell and back.
"I bet the men at the mines are glad to see the last of you," Sam commented casually.
"I like to spread myself around, keep everyone on their toes. I'm considering going down to 'Frisco. Want to come with me?"
She'd always thought his eyes were gray. They seemed nearly black right now as they scorched through her. She knew what he asked, but it wasn't the question she wanted to hear. Sloan Talbott could keep right on burning in his own hell if he thought she was that easy.
"Planning on making it simple for Anderson? You never have told me why he wants to kill you."
He didn't come any closer. "I've got a couple of theories but no proof. I don't like leaving you so far away. The camp is only a few hours' ride. 'Frisco is more than a day. I'd feel safer if you were where I could see you."
"That works both ways. You're the one Anderson is gunning for. But the only way I'm going down that mountain with you is if you promise to stay away from me. I'm not Melinda. I don't sleep with men who aren't my husband."
His features hardened. "I don't have anything left to give, Sam. I've given up my name, my reputation, my profession, my home, and everything I ever owned to my wife. My bed is all I have left to offer. Take it or leave it."
She shrugged. "I already left it. You made your decision. I made mine. Take Joe with you to 'Frisco."
He looked as if he wanted to say somet
hing else. His hands gripped into fists and his jaw muscles perceptibly tightened. He looked as if he'd like to shake her. Instead, he just turned around and left her alone with her garden and her hoe. She hadn't expected anything more.
But it hurt. It hurt to know that all she would ever be to him was a woman in his bed. She could understand that his first wife had destroyed everything he'd ever thought of himself. She didn't know why or completely understand how that could be, but she knew that's how it was. Still, he'd made a new life for himself. Why was he so reluctant to share it?
Sam didn't believe for an instant that it was the ramifications of the divorce. That was just an excuse. The Sloan Talbott she knew would consult a good lawyer and get himself out of any legal bind that he was in once he put his mind to it. He just preferred holding that agreement between them like a wall that would keep them apart forever. Except in bed.
He should have found someone younger and sillier, Sam thought vengefully as she attacked the stony ground. Or maybe it would have been better if she could just be as naive as he thought her. Whichever the case, neither of them would get much sleep while the other was around. He'd certainly been right about that part. She was so aware of him that her skin felt electrified every time he came near.
She waited for Sloan to leave town, but he didn't. He found plumbers willing to come all the way up the mountain to pipe water from the stream into the hotel. He had carpenters in to enclose the back stairs and add on rooms. Men in fancy suits started arriving in wagons hired from Sacramento, indicating they had come up the river by steamboat. Carriers bearing official-looking packages of documents came and went on a regular basis. The spider improved his web daily rather than moving it.
Sam was impressed by the amount of activity one man could generate, but she'd apparently buried her usual curiosity along with her heart. The only room of the hotel she entered was the kitchen. The only things she spoke about to Sloan or any of the other men were the weather and the plants starting to poke their heads through the soil. When the first pea leaves showed through their rocky bed, she held a christening party, and after that, men stopped by regularly to check the growth of her garden.
A March snow covered the ground, but Sam buried her tender lettuce beneath straw, and the courtyard walls prevented the wind from burning the other plants. Those same walls held the sun's warmth when it came out again, and the snow melted rapidly.
Sloan came out to inspect the damage when she did. He knelt in the garden and gingerly pushed his fingers into the dirt around a seedling, tucking it more firmly into the bed. The young green shoots pushing joyously through previously barren ground struck him as strangely symbolic. He knew his literature. He knew about the symbolism of breathing new life into the old, of the earth's annual rejuvenation bringing hope where all had been bleak before. He just feared it came too late for him.
He glanced at Samantha as she gently removed some of the straw from around her lettuce. Her wide mouth was set in a serene smile. Her copper hair glowed in the sunlight as she kneeled in the dirt. She hadn't worn a dress again since she'd left him, but he didn't mind. He knew by now that she would drive him crazy whatever she wore or didn't wear. From the first moment he'd tried to look down her shirt he'd been drawn to her. It had taken him this long to realize, however, that the attraction wasn't entirely sexual.
He couldn't bring himself to think about that, though. He focused his attention on the gun belt she wore around her hips. "Why in hell are you wearing those things?" he demanded.
She had to follow his gaze to figure out what he was talking about, then she only shrugged. "Varmints are everywhere this time of year."
"Like hell, they are. Has someone been bothering you?" Sloan heard the fury in his voice, but couldn't control it. The idea of anyone else laying a hand on Samantha unleashed some irrational part of his brain. She was his, whatever anyone else thought about it.
She sent him one of her blasted lifted-eyebrow looks. "You're the only man in the country who has the audacity to bother me. I think I'll make it a rule that only happy people can come out here to the garden. Plants can hear, you know. Anger makes them unhappy."
"I don't know any such thing. That's the silliest statement you've ever made. Plants don't have ears. They don't even have brains to identify sounds. Plants are just plants. You step on them, and they die. They don't scream for help."
She smiled forgivingly at him. Standing up, she sang softly to herself as she examined the remaining vines on the arbor. No sign of life showed in the blighted wood, only Sloan couldn't help but entertain the notion that some of the tiny tendrils leaned toward the sound of that damned sultry voice.
"I've got a man who says he's found your valley," he said abruptly. He hadn't meant to say anything at all until he'd had time to go out and inspect the place himself, but he had to say something to drive these other crazy notions out of his head.
She swung around in midnote and stared at him eagerly. "Really? Could we go out today? The ground really needs to be broke early so it has time to settle before I plant. It's almost too late already."
"There's still snow back in some of those pockets, and I haven't been able to go out and look for myself. He may be wrong. There's no point in getting all excited yet."
"Who found it? Could I talk to him? Maybe he could take me out there since you're so busy. I have lots of time. The kitchen is about finished, and there isn't much more I can do here until the weather turns warmer. Let me go, Sloan. I need to see it."
He couldn't tell her no. He had only to look into the depths of those eager blue eyes to lose himself. He wanted that day at the beach back. His soul ached for just a touch, just a reminder of what was between them. Hell, he hadn't even known he possessed a soul. He'd thought it lost long ago. She was destroying something inside him with those eyes. They were like lanterns of truth, lighting the dark passageways of his existence, revealing the cracks and deteriorating walls in their clarity.
"We'll go together when the snow clears." Sloan turned and walked away abruptly, before she had him groveling at her feet.
It had been nearly a month, and Anderson was still in San Francisco from all reports. Sloan's inquiries in Boston hadn't received any answers yet. He didn't know why Harry wanted him dead at this late date, but he was too far away to cause a great deal of harm right now. It should be safe enough to take Sam to her valley. He would take an army with them to make sure it was safe.
It would take an army to keep them separated once they were together again.
It was nearly the end of March before Sloan deemed it safe enough to venture out to seek the valley. It hadn't rained or snowed in days, and the weather had grown warm enough to turn mountain streams into rivers. The sound of water crashing over boulders and gurgling down mountainsides accompanied them as they set out.
Sam thrilled at the enchantment of clear air, warm sun, and bird song as the horses swayed slowly around the side of the mountain. Towering evergreens exuded the thick scent of pine beneath the sun's warmth. New green leaves added a misty quality to frail branches, and the tender shoots of wildflowers sprang out of every crack and crevice. The air practically vibrated with spring, and she couldn't wipe the smile from her face—not even if she had to ride in the company of half a dozen men bristling with guns and rifles. They strung their horses out in front and back of her, keeping watchful guard as if expecting a troop of mounted bandits to appear any minute. Sam ignored their silliness. She was too happy to allow them to drag her down with their oppressive outlook.
She pointed out a squirrel scolding them from the branches overhead, a robin wrestling with a piece of straw for its nest, and the first opening buds of a wildflower she couldn't identify. Neither could any of the men around her. Sam turned around and found Sloan riding close behind her.
"You should have brought Chief Coyote along. I bet he could tell me the names of those flowers."
"Either that, or he could make them up for you. The chief's not exac
tly right in the head, you realize," he answered amicably.
"Just because he sees things you don't doesn't make you right and him wrong. He's been around a lot longer than any of us. He's seen more than we'll ever see. He simply doesn't choose to communicate in the same way as we do."
"He doesn't sing to plants either," Sloan said with amusement. "I haven't got anything against Coyote. I didn't even bring charges against him for horse stealing. I just wouldn't exactly rely on anything he says without further proof."
There wasn't much use in arguing with him. Samantha smiled and watched a deer stop on a nearby rise. She shouted at a man who raised his rifle to bring the animal down. There had been a time when she would have been the one raising that rifle, but they didn't need the food now. She felt harmony with all living things at the moment. She watched in satisfaction as the deer crashed through the shrubbery and disappeared.
Sloan offered no seductive innuendoes as they rode. They'd packed blankets and saddlebags for the sake of caution, but this was merely an exploratory expedition. They weren't planning to spend the night in close proximity. Still, he rode as near to her as the trail allowed, and she was aware of his presence every minute.
Sam had a number of reasons to be aware of him, but she was too happy at the moment to worry about them. Sloan pointed out the high ridge leading to his mining operation, showed her where an eagle built its nest, and generally made himself pleasant for a change. It pleased her that he made the effort to at least show the world they were settling their differences, even if it was just that—a show.
The men relaxed their guard gradually when nothing threatened their journey, except the occasional screech of a squirrel or crackle of a falling branch weakened by the winter's snow. Samantha started singing as their guide said they were getting close to the valley. The song was slightly bawdy and familiar to most of the men, and they gargled out the words if not exactly the tune as they rode. Sloan grinned and sent her a dancing look, but didn't attempt to make the same joyful noise as his men.
Denim and Lace Page 31
