by Eli Easton
Robby sipped his coffee, pinky raised, and waited. Watching the family dynamics was like sitting ringside at a boxing match. Or perhaps “wrestling match” would be more apt.
“Listen here, Rowena,” Pa-Pa began with an exasperated sigh.
“Um-hmm. Yes?” Robby turned to face him, eyebrows raised. Do go on.
“Now, I’m sure it’s a heck of a lot different in St. Louis. Why, ya must have all kindy amusements,” Pa-Pa put on a reasonable, lecturing tone. “But here on the ranch there just ain’t a lot of . . . of . . .”
“Um-hmmm?” Rowena made an encouraging sound.
“Well, ya know. Amusements and such like. So’s, we just . . . pig wrassle.” Pa-Pa cleared his throat, his expression painfully awkward. “There ain’t no harm in it! And it helps folks work the restless out of their systems. So . . .” He held out his hands and shrugged. “I know it’s hardly a dignified, er, amusement—”
Pa-Pa needed some new vocabulary.
“But, well, I’m hopin’ ya can find your way to see past it and marry up with Clovis anyhow. Ya have my word that no one in town knows about this, so no one will look down on ya for it.”
“And you don’t have to do it, Rowena,” Marcy said, looking like she wanted to cry. “Honestly, you don’t. And I’m—I’m sorry. Emmie and me, we won’t do it anymore either, if it makes you think ill of us.”
The table fell silent. Everyone looked on pins and needles waiting for Rowena’s decision.
Huh.
“So,” Robby summed up slowly. “You wrestle pigs. As a family. And that’s why everyone has bruises. And this is the big family secret.”
Everyone looked at each other. Wayne gave a tight nod. Clovis let out a big, despondent sigh, head still in his hands.
Robby got a brief image of a revised mail-order bride advertisement. WANTED: A gal with a fondness for hirsute men. Must love pigs! He bit back a laugh.
It was funny. Pigs! Oh God! The memory of seeing Killboar dragging Wayne through the mud . . . . Everyone covered head to toe in mud and God knew what else . . . . Robby’s mother would be absolutely horrified.
But then Robby realized that everyone, even Wayne and Roy, seemed truly worried that Rowena would cancel the wedding. Because they wanted her to stay. Her, not just “the mail-order bride.” Rowena. He got a lump in his throat.
And then he thought: The pigs are an easy way out of this mess.
He could claim to be outraged. Ask Trace to drive him to Mrs. Jones’s boarding house. Be done with this whole charade before he got even more entangled. Then he’d never have to tell them the truth.
But looking at Clovis’s dejected, hopeless posture, and the shame in the ladies’ faces, Robby just couldn’t do that.
Robby—Rowena—shrugged. “Well. It’s a little eccentric, I’ll grant you. But anything that makes Marcy and Emmie laugh like that is all right in my book. However, I do demand a bribe.”
“A what?” Pa-Pa asked.
Robby sipped his coffee. “Not now, because I’m starving. But after dinner, I’m giving you a haircut, Clovis Crabtree. That’s my price for silence.”
The brothers started whooping it up, poking fun at Clovis. Marcy and Emmie ran around the table to hug Rowena.
Pa-Pa said, “I knew ya had sense, gal. Knew it the minute I saw ya.”
And from behind her, a hand landed on Robby’s shoulder and squeezed. Robby knew that touch, even without turning his head, and he knew the message in it.
Thank you.
Chapter Twenty-Five
After dinner, the dishes went remarkably fast with even Billy and Paul chipping in, racing around the kitchen like little dynamos. It seemed everyone was looking forward to witnessing Clovis’s torture as soon as possible.
When the last dish was put away, Robby set up a chair near the sink, laid out scissors, a comb, and pomade, and went to look for Clovis. He wasn’t anywhere in the house or visible in the yard. But as Robby started toward the barn, he saw a flash of black hair behind the hen house, so he turned on his heel and went over there.
He snuck up quietly, stifling a giggle. With a yank, Robby looked behind the hen house and caught Clovis flattened against it, hiding.
“I was, um, watchin’ for coyotes,” he said, abashed.
“Is that right?” Robby cooed. “Well, even a coyote deserves a chicken dinner once in a while.”
He grabbed Clovis’s wrist and pulled him toward the house. Clovis could easily have yanked away, but he didn’t. He came along meek as a lamb as Robby crossed the yard and marched up the porch steps. God, part of Robby had been dying to take shears to that mess of hair since he’d first seen it. It was so unkempt it was like a disturbance in the natural order.
He put both hands on Clovis’s shoulders and pushed him down in the chair by the sink. Clovis’s gaze darted around the room like a cornered rat. “Guess I could use a trim, but maybe we should wait till closer to the weddin’.”
Robby patted his shoulder. “I’m of a mind to do it right now, so we might as well get it over with. Lean back.”
He pushed on Clovis’s shoulders, but the man didn’t move, just looked up at him pleadingly.
“I promise it won’t hurt,” Robby said solemnly.
Clovis just rolled his eyes and groaned.
This was another trick Robby had learned in the theater. Sometimes actors arrived for a performance in the most appalling condition, and it was necessary to clean them up before you could even think about makeup and styling. So Robby knew the sort of bright, business-like attitude that best suited grooming other human beings. And he also knew that, no matter how much a man complained, they secretly liked having Robby’s strong fingers massaging their scalp. Robby himself loved having a shampoo at the barber shop.
He had Clovis tilt his head back over the sink, and he soaked Clovis’s hair with a pitcher of warm water. Robby still had a bottle of good shampoo left in his travel bag, saved for when he reached a town where he could do auditions. He decided to use some of that precious allotment on Clovis, soaping his head and scrunching around with his long fingers. The shampoo smelled of lemon and herbs, and Robby took his time working it in.
Clovis had plenty of height, and plenty of muscles, and plenty of hair—more than any single man should be blessed with. But, Lord, it was filthy. Robby could feel the dirt and oil caked in it. He rinsed and soaped again until the clean, coarse texture emerged under his fingers.
Clovis, on his part, relaxed further and further into the chair until he was practically a man puddle. His frown smoothed out and soon he was wearing a blissful half-smile, his eyes closed.
“I’d marry ya just for this,” Clovis muttered.
The room had filled up with Crabtrees there to watch the spectacle. Trace leaned against the doorway to the hall, his expression unreadable. But the others stood close by and observed like it was a science exhibition. At first, Robby had to ignore the elbow pokes and snickers of the men. But as he worked Clovis’s scalp, the room fell silent until you could hear the squeak of his fingers in the soap.
He gave Clovis’s hair a final rinse and nudged him to sit up so he could towel-dry his hair. Clovis blinked, as if coming out of sleep, and sighed a huge sigh.
“See? That wasn’t so bad,” Robby said.
Clovis shook his head but didn’t say a word.
Robby put a little oil on Clovis’s hair to loosen the tangles and worked a comb through it, then trimmed it up considerably with the shears, cutting off inches of length and thinning it out so it wasn’t so bushy. He used the simple method his mother had used and that he used on his own hair. When he was done, he scrunched up the drying ends with his fingers so they sprang to life.
Clovis stayed relaxed through it all, his shoulders slumped, staring at nothing with half-lidded eyes and a pleasantly dazed expression, like an old dog having its belly rubbed.
Robby stood back and tilted his head. It didn’t look too bad, if he did say so himself. But now the big bush
y beard was even worse by comparison.
“Billy, go fetch me some shaving soap and a razor, please,” Robby said.
Clovis gave a huff and shot Robby a wary look, but he didn’t argue. Billy, his eyes wide as though he were witnessing some secret and arcane rite of adulthood, ran off like a shot. He returned moments later with a shaving razor, brush, and tin of soap.
“Those’re mine!” Pa-Pa said, sounding disgruntled.
“Thank you for letting us use them,” Robby replied sweetly. He was on too much of a tear to be distracted. He poured some boiling water from the teakettle onto a towel, added a bit of cool water, and wrapped Clovis’s big, bushy jaw and neck before he commenced to shaving.
It was a bit like trying to cut down an ancient-growth forest, but Robby persevered. There was something satisfying about each inch of skin revealed. At the back of his neck, Clovis had a pelt that disappeared into his shirt, so Robby folded down Clovis’s collar and shaved down to his shoulders.
He stepped back and surveyed his handiwork.
The whole room gasped.
Lord. Clovis looked a little like a newly shorn sheep. The skin on the lower part of his face was pale and soft next to the sun-darkened tone on his forehead and nose. Even so, the change was fantastic. He had a broad jaw, rounded with baby fat, and an honest-to-God cleft in his chin. Without all the fur, his shoulders looked broader and less rounded, and his brown eyes, with their long lashes, stood out like signposts.
Robby turned to look at the rest of the Crabtrees, wanting to get their opinion. His eyes went to Trace first. Trace’s expression gave away nothing, but there was a spark of warmth in his eyes. Marcy had her hand over her mouth in awe, Emmie’s eyebrows had practically disappeared up into her hairline, and the men stared at Clovis like they had no idea who he was.
Clovis stood up slowly and rubbed his hand over his jaw. “Heck, that feels kindy peculiar.” He caught sight of the others and blinked. “What are y'all staring at, idjits?”
“Clovis, ya look wonderful!” Marcy said breathlessly.
Emmie nodded eagerly. “Why ya look so young and . . . and . . .”
The word “presentable” came to Robby’s mind. But that wasn’t exactly flattering.
“He looks handsome as a prince,” Robby declared, wiping his hands on a towel. “Now then, I’ll just clean this up.”
Wayne stepped forward. “Would ya . . . That is, since ya already have the stuff out anyways . . . .”
“Me too.” Roy scratched at his head. “I’m overdue.”
“Well, I’m next,” Pa-Pa snapped. “Cause I’m the boss. And ’cause I said so.”
Robby laughed.
“Ro—Miss Fairchild, you don’t have to do all that. This ain’t a barber shop,” Trace drawled, though Robby was pretty sure he wanted a shampoo too, if the frustrated tone in his voice was any indication.
“In for a penny . . . .” Robby said, waving Pa-Pa to the chair.
Trace was the last to sit down at the sink. By that time, Robby had decided that barbering was not a profession he cared to ever pursue. Clovis had been an intriguing challenge, like searching for treasure in a swamp. But Pa-Pa had been routine and by the time Roy was done, the task had become downright tedious. But Robby didn’t really mind. He figured he owed the Crabtrees a hell of a lot more than a few shampoos and shaves.
But Trace . . . This one Robby was looking forward to.
Trace sat down at the sink with a huff. He knew it was foolish to be jealous of his brothers. But the sight of Robby-Rowena leaning over them and washing their hair had grated on his last nerve. It looked so intimate. He resented them for getting Robby’s touches, as perfunctory as they were.
Funny, he’d never once been jealous of Rafael, the barber in Santa Fe. But then, he’d never gone weak in the knees over Rafael either. Or felt warm and happy to just hold him.
He was tense over such thoughts, his mind dissatisfied and restless. But when Robby poured warm water over his scalp, gently working it in, he looked up into those half-lidded green eyes and relaxed.
The life in those eyes never ceased to amaze him. The calm intelligence in them. The . . . kindness?
Yes, Robby was kind. He didn’t have to be so nice to Trace’s family. He didn’t have to be sweet to Marcy and Emmie. Trace had just about teared up this afternoon when Robby had dismissed the pig-wrassling.
If it makes Marcy and Emmie smile . . .
That damned stupid pig-wrassling. Trace had enjoyed it in his youth, but had come to find it a flat-out humiliation after he’d traveled the West. Why, he couldn’t imagine what General Armstrong’s wife would make of it. But Robby had taken it in stride.
Also, Robby didn’t have to cut their goddamn hair. Didn’t have to take care with Clovis. Trace wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He didn’t want Clovis falling in love with Rowena and he couldn’t imagine Clovis wouldn’t. How could anyone not?
The other family members had wandered away by now, finally bored, so they were alone in the kitchen. Trace grabbed Robby’s wrist as he went to put down the pitcher. He held it and looked up into Robby’s eyes. They gazed at each other for a long moment. Trace tilted up his head far enough to look around the room and make sure they were still alone. Then he gave Robby’s wrist a brief kiss and released it.
“Risky, Sheriff,” Robby said softly. He began working the shampoo into Trace’s hair.
Trace grunted but fell silent, closing his eyes and giving in to the scent of lemons and the sensation of Robby’s hands.
Lord, it was good. Robby soaped his hair slowly, turning the massage sensual, grazing over his scalp teasingly with his nails and rubbing his temples in circles with his thumbs. He wiped Trace’s eyebrows with the soap, slowly, which was a strangely erotic gesture. Trace could imagine those slippery thumbs elsewhere.
He opened his eyes to give Robby a warning look. “Hope you didn’t do that to my brothers.” His voice sounded gravelly.
Robby just smiled. “Only for you, love. Only for you.”
Love. Trace tried not to take that seriously. It was just Rowena’s way of talking all dramatic-like.
Robby next massaged the soap around Trace’s ear with his thumb. It felt like a tongue.
“Stop that,” Trace snapped. “Or I won’t be able to walk through the house when you’re done without causin’ a scandal.”
“Now that you mention it, this skirt only hides so many sins,” Robby agreed quietly.
Which made Trace glance at those skirts. They were eye-level and perhaps a bit fuller than usual. His throat went dry imagining what was under there.
Goddamn, why did Robby stir him so easily?
“You’ll be the death of me,” Trace said.
Robby didn’t answer. He took his time with Trace’s shampoo, then made him sit up and trimmed his hair.
Trace sighed as the scissors went snip, snip. From outside, he heard the kids calling and laughing. And for a heartbeat he felt a shift in time, as if this were years from now and Robby was cutting his hair, and they were in their own kitchen, kids that belonged to them out there playing. A stab of joy mixed with pain shot through him. That would never be.
“There. You look very handsome,” Robby said, putting down the scissors and brushing off Trace’s shoulders.
There was a hint of wistfulness in his voice. Maybe he’d had thoughts along those lines as well. Trace looked up.
“Come to the bunkhouse in the barn tonight,” he begged in a whisper.
Robby glanced around. They were still alone.
“Yes, all right,” Robby said, even though they both knew he shouldn’t.
But Trace would be waiting for him. Hell, he’d be counting the minutes.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Tuesday
Since he’d moved back to the ranch, Trace had been in the habit of riding into town every morning after breakfast. He’d check in with Stan at the saloon and see if there’d been any rowdy hijinks he needed to know about. Ne
xt, he’d check with Pete at the mercantile. And finally, he’d check in at the wire office. Normally, after seeing the wire of the day, Trace would sit on the porch at the sheriff’s office so’s folks could stop by and chat with him, see that there was still a sheriff in town.
He’d gotten impatient not hearing news, so he’d wired Rafael asking for a daily update and promising to pay next time he was in town. Rafael had obliged him. For the past week, his wires had been things like, BB seen riding west this morning. Came back at sunset. Or, BB in saloon all day. Talking to hired guns. Or, No movement.
Through Rafael, Trace had learned that the Bowery Boys had settled on hiring the Durby Gang, gunslingers and cutthroats led by Dick Durby. Trace had heard they were sometimes hired out for “security,” but more often robbed stagecoaches and wagons themselves. Then, two days ago there’d been a more ominous missive: Two men found dead on the SF Trail. Throats cut. Rumored the BB done it. Trace hadn’t told Robby. He didn’t want to frighten him any more than he already was.
That news wasn’t exactly unexpected, but it was still bad news. Trace guessed the Bowery Boys were still tracking down people who’d been on Robby’s wagon train, even people who’d fled Santa Fe. One of them was bound to talk. And when the Bowery Boys put two and two together, they’d be out for “Rowena’s” blood.
On Tuesday morning he got the wire he’d been dreading. It read: BB and Durby Gang heading to Flat Bottom tomorrow. Be careful.
Trace stared down at the wire, feeling numb and cold.
“Everythin’ all right?” Floyd asked, peering at Trace curiously.
“Yup.”
“You sure? Is that the wire you been waitin’ on?”
“Yup.”
“Say . . . Is there gonna be trouble here tomorrow? I got my missus and kids to think of.”
Trace looked at Floyd’s worried face. He couldn’t blame the man. “Just stay inside tomorrow, lock your doors. If trouble comes, it should just ride on through.”
