by Tess LeSue
Up close she was even sexier. He could see the shimmer of perspiration on her collarbones and in the valley of her cleavage. He wondered if she’d taste salty. His ears roared, his heartbeat thunderous. He couldn’t stop himself from staring. Her stomach was firm and white, her navel a teasing indentation, leading down to . . .
“Y’all will have to excuse us,” she said throatily as she sidled up to Deathrider, disappearing from Tom’s view. He inched sideways, in time to see her hands slide up his friend’s chest. Deathrider seemed frozen in place.
“I’m afraid I’m booked tonight,” the whore purred, “and I mean all night.” Those pink-pink lips pressed against Deathrider’s. There was a collective moan as the miners watched. Tom felt a wave of envy as he saw Deathrider’s hands slide down the whore’s back, settling over the round curves of her behind.
“Lucky bastard,” someone yelled.
The whore whispered something in Deathrider’s ear and then squealed as he threw her over his shoulder and plunged up the stairs, taking them two at a time. The whore giggled and blew the room a kiss. The miners catcalled and howled when Deathrider slammed the door behind them.
The minute the door slammed, it was like a spell had broken. Tom shivered. Hell. He’d been too long without a woman. His hand shook as he swiped the perspiration away from his top lip. He couldn’t get the sight of those rouged nipples out of his mind. And he was itchy and throbbing and horny as an old bull because of it.
So horny he would have hired a whore, if there had been one to be found. But the redhead had caused a fever in La Noche, and every girl was booked up in her wake. Deathrider had the luck of the devil himself, Tom thought enviously, as he consoled himself by buying another half bottle of whiskey. He had to do something to calm himself. After all, he was supposed to meet a pair of nuns in a couple of hours. He could hardly face a nun while he was sporting an erection, could he? His gaze drifted back up to the closed door. Every bit of him wished he could swap places with Deathrider tonight. He scowled as he filled his glass. Goddamn it. He couldn’t be accosted by a long-legged redhead with enormous bouncing breasts, could he? No. Nuns were his lot in life.
6
“WHAT THE HELL was that?” Deathrider just about threw her off his shoulder.
Emma untied the bonnet and tossed it to him. “That, my friend, was what they call a show.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “You said you wanted drama, didn’t you?”
Deathrider was still the color of a prairie sunset.
Emma laughed. She put her hands on her hips and posed. “And, like I promised, our Mr. Slater sure didn’t notice my face.” The thought of Tom Slater and his hungry eyes sent a little shiver through her. My, oh my, but that man was divine. She’d seen him the minute she’d reached the head of the stairs. He’d been in the shadows directly behind Deathrider, his long body tense, his eyes trained on her. Dear God, and she’d thought his brother was charismatic. Tom was like a wild animal: poised, watchful, hypnotic. Everything about him seemed intense and measured and sexy as all hell. The way his eyes had fixed on her like he could eat her alive . . .
“You could have been raped!” Deathrider growled. “What if those men had rushed you?”
Emma rolled her eyes. Men. Always trying to tell her her business. “Honey. I’ve been doing this since I grew breasts. If I know anything, it’s how to work a room.”
“That was reckless and stupid.” He snatched her scratchy white underdress off the chair and threw it at her. “Get some clothes on!”
Emma was enjoying his discomfort. She’d never seen him at all discomposed before. All men were the same, really. Show them a pair of breasts and they go soft in the head. She took her time with the dress, wriggling into it as slowly as she could. He turned his back on her.
“I think what you mean by ‘reckless and stupid’ is ‘that was inspired, Emma, well done.’” She smoothed the dress down. “I’m decent. You can turn back around.”
“It worked then?” Calla asked, yawning as she emerged from the attached bedroom.
“I think we were memorable.” Emma grinned. She plonked herself down in the chair and began unlacing the boots. She swapped them for her own pair, which were far more comfortable. “They should be talking about us for a while. And everyone should recognize the bonnet and the hair tomorrow.”
“Mr. Death looks like he caught sunburn,” Calla observed. She made a show of peering out the window, looking for the sun. “Or was he moonstruck?”
“Stop calling me Mr. Death,” Deathrider growled. Neither of them bothered to tell him that he had pink paint smeared all over his lips from Emma’s kiss.
“Sure thing, sugar,” Emma said cheerily. “Calla, can you help me with this wretched thing? I never can remember how it goes on.”
“Tom will be out round back of the stable waiting for you in a couple of hours,” Deathrider said tersely. His pale eyes watched as Calla swathed Emma in yards of black.
“You seem a little pent up,” Emma teased. “Maybe you ought to find some company. I know Ella has always had a soft spot for you.”
“I’m supposed to be busy, remember? With a certain redhead.”
“Lucky Micah.” Emma winked at him. Once she was all nunned up and had washed the paint off her face, she twirled in front of him. “What do you think? Will Mr. Slater recognize me?”
“I barely recognize you,” he said, more than a little grudgingly.
“Admit it, I make a fetching nun.” She looked utterly revolting. She pulled at the head-splittingly tight coif. She looked like a big black crow. A big black sweaty crow. “By the time I reach Mexico, I’m going to smell like a swine,” she sighed.
“Next town we stop in, we should buy a bottle of perfume,” Calla suggested. “We can douse ourselves in it every morning.”
“Like fragrant pigs,” Emma snorted. She glanced at the clock. “We’ve got two hours to kill. Anyone fancy a hand of cards?”
* * *
• • •
AN HOUR AND a half later, Emma was happily counting her winnings; Deathrider had retreated to the window, where he hulked like a brooding gargoyle, and Calla had dozed off on the lounge. But they all started to their feet when someone abruptly pounded on the office door.
Someone who clearly wasn’t going anywhere. The three of them stayed silent, but the knocking only grew louder and more insistent. The saloon was in full swing below, the noise of it a steady roar. It got louder by the hour. They hadn’t anticipated that Emma’s appearance would kick off a festival atmosphere. The hallway was busier than the California Trail in high summer. Emma assumed whoever was knocking had an itch to scratch and was looking for an available whore.
“Go away!” Deathrider growled at the door. “We’re busy!”
They didn’t go away. “It’s me!” a muffled female voice called through the door.
“Who the hell is ‘me’?” Deathrider hissed at Emma.
She shrugged. “How should I know?”
“Get in the bedroom, both of you. The last thing we need is for someone to spy two nuns.” As he spoke, he pulled his buckskin shirt over his head in one smooth movement. He mussed his hair with both hands.
“Wait,” Emma said, realizing what he was up to. She yanked the eagle feather half loose from his hair, so it dangled askew. “Maybe unlace the opening of your pants too.” The pink smear of paint across his mouth would help. He looked like a man who had been well and truly bedded. She suppressed a laugh as she skipped off to the bedroom. She and Calla kept the door slightly ajar, so they could peer through and watch the show.
“What do you want?” he snarled as he opened the door to the office. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
They heard a soft cry of despair, and then there was the sound of crying.
“Anna!” Emma saw who’d come knocking and left her hiding place.
“Goddamn it, woman!” Deathrider glared at her. “Don’t you ever do what you’re told?”
“Seline?” Anna gasped.
Deathrider yanked her through the door and slammed it behind her. “Do you even know what discreet means?” he railed at Emma.
Anna had a child in her arms, Emma saw. A gangly scrap of a girl who had her face buried in Anna’s neck and was shaking like a leaf.
“Hush up,” Emma told Deathrider. “Can’t you see that you’re scaring her?”
Anna burst into loud sobs.
“And her too, by the look of it.” Emma glared at him.
“Oh, Seline, they were at her.” Anna could barely talk for crying.
Emma led the woman to the lounge and helped her lower into it. It was no easy feat, with an armful of gangly child. The girl had a death grip on Anna.
“Calla, can you pour a nip out of the decanter over there?” Emma ordered. She made soothing sounds and patted Anna until Calla brought the glass of whiskey. “It’s the good stuff. From Tennessee,” she told Anna, lifting the glass to the woman’s lips. “It’ll smack those tears right out of you.”
Deathrider was looming like a gargoyle again. Emma shooed him away. “You’re just making everyone nervy,” she scolded.
“No one’s meant to see you,” he complained.
“It’s only Anna. We go way back.” Emma could see how frightened Anna and the child were of him. And no wonder. He was big and powerful and half-naked, and glowering at them like he might scalp them. Not that he scalped people. But judging by all the silly dime novels piled up in here, they were likely to think so. At least the pink lips made him slightly less threatening, she thought philosophically.
“Now, Anna, ignore him. He’s completely harmless.”
He glowered even more at that. It wasn’t helping.
Emma turned her back on him. She heard Calla giggle. “Why don’t you tell me what happened and we’ll see what we can do? All problems have solutions.”
That was one of Emma’s favorite sayings. The familiarity of it seemed to comfort Anna, who took a deep hitching breath.
“Well,” she said, still dripping tears, “we’ve been more than usually busy tonight. With the men riled up and all . . .”
Despite herself, Emma took some pride in that. She wondered if Tom Slater was as riled as the rest of them. Judging by the heat in his gaze and the way he hadn’t been able to look away from her body, he certainly had been.
“There just aren’t enough girls to go around,” Anna said anxiously.
Emma was less proud of the savage glee she felt at the thought that Tom Slater might not have been able to douse his fire. She didn’t want him to find relief with another woman. Which was absurd. They hadn’t even met.
“One of the rougher ones came hunting in the kitchen for women. You know. Looking for cooks or kitchen maids. Or anyone really.”
Emma flinched. Oh Lord. Here she was full of vanity, when Anna was sobbing and something clearly horrid had happened. “Please tell me he didn’t hurt the child,” she said weakly. Memories roiled. The sour smell of whiskey mash. The hand over her mouth, almost suffocating her. The pain. The weight. The pressure. The screams trapped inside her own head.
“He tried.” Anna pulled the child closer. “But I didn’t let him,” she said fiercely.
“Good,” Emma said, just as fiercely.
“I might have hit him over the head with a skillet.” Anna’s tears started fresh. “I think I might have killed him!”
“Well done.” Emma registered Anna and Calla’s shock, but she wasn’t sorry. Any man who touched a child deserved a skillet to the head.
“They’ll hang me for sure!” Anna erupted into sobs. And now that set the child off too. “And then what will happen to Winnie?”
“Get yourself together,” Emma said sharply. “This is a time for solutions, remember? You can cry later.”
Anna pressed her lips together to still her wails and nodded.
“I assume you’re Winnie?” Emma asked, bending over Anna’s shoulder. Two big brown eyes blinked up at her, swimming with tears. “Hello, Winnie,” Emma said gently. “I’m Emma.”
Calla cleared her throat noisily.
“Sister Emma,” Emma amended. “And this is Sister Calla. We’re nuns.”
“Blessed Sisters of Christ,” Calla confirmed, nodding and sounding pious.
Emma caught herself before she could roll her eyes. Calla really took the nun thing far too seriously.
“When did you become a nun?” Anna asked. She seemed utterly bewildered as she looked back and forth between Emma and Calla.
“Not long ago.” That was barely even a lie. Emma returned her attention to Winnie. “Do you know what a nun is, honey?”
Winnie nodded.
“Nuns are good people,” Emma continued. “People you can trust.” She thought she heard Deathrider stifle a laugh, but when she looked over, he was busy putting on his shirt. “Isn’t that right, Anna?”
“I’ve known . . . Sister Emma . . . a long time, Winnie,” Anna assured the girl. “I’d trust her with my life.”
Winnie’s tears slowed.
“Now, Winnie, I’m going to ask you to go with Sister Calla into the bedroom there.”
Winnie shook her head and made a panicked noise.
Calla squatted beside the lounge so her face was level with Winnie’s. “We’ll leave the door open, so you can see Anna,” she suggested.
“Sister Calla is a nun, remember?” Emma soothed. “She’s a good person. Someone you can trust. She’ll help you wash your face and straighten yourself up. And you’ll be able to see Anna through the door and hear our voices. I’ll ask our friend here to mind the door to the hallway so no one can get in to hurt you.”
Deathrider arched a brow at that, but he moved to the office door and, just like she’d asked, stood watch. Emma liked him more than ever for it.
After a fair bit more coaxing, Winnie let herself be led to the room next door. She shot worried glances back at Anna with each step.
“Well,” Emma sighed, as soon as the child was next door and they could hear the splash of water in the washbasin, “there’s only one solution as far as I can see. You and the girl will have to come with us.”
“What?” Deathrider didn’t sound pleased.
“Keep your voice down,” she said. “You’ll scare the poor little mite all over again. Now, Anna, do you by any chance know if Ella keeps a nun’s habit on hand . . . ?”
7
“HE’S DRUNK!”
They were late to meet Tom Slater by more than half an hour. It couldn’t be helped, as they’d needed the time to get Anna disguised. Deathrider had grudgingly gone to hide the body Anna had left in the kitchen. He still hadn’t returned by the time they left. Emma assumed he was fine, as they hadn’t heard a hue and cry go up. She hated to leave without thanking him, but time was against them. She left a scrawled note on the desk and reluctantly left him to his own adventure.
It was quite an ordeal sneaking out of the whorehouse and getting the wagon harnessed and ready.
“Where is he?” Calla asked anxiously, glancing around the dark stable.
“Deathrider said he’d be round back. Now hush.” Emma handed Winnie up into the wagon. “The rest of us are going to walk until we meet our guide, honey,” she told the skittish girl. “You stay up there where you’re safe. Anna, cover the lantern. Calla, can you lead the horses?” Emma grabbed hold of the mules by the harness and yanked. She tried her best to keep everyone quiet as they maneuvered around behind the stable. Across the yard the whorehouse was still lit up like a sunrise and the sound of slurry singing hung in the airless heat. The last thing she wanted was to be spotted by the drunken miners.
There was no sign of Tom Slater behind the stable that she could see. Where the hel
l was he? It was a moonless night and plenty dark, so it was hard to tell if he was here or not.
And then they heard a soft snore.
“Anna,” Emma whispered, “uncover the lantern.” She tied the mules to a post and crept toward the sound of snoring.
“He’s drunk!” Calla exclaimed, when they eventually found him.
“Why, that’s Tom!” Anna said, as soon as the lantern light hit the planes of Tom Slater’s beautiful face.
“Anna! You know him?” Emma couldn’t keep the exasperation from her voice. “Honestly. You couldn’t have thought to mention that before we went to all the trouble to disguise you?”
“I didn’t know you meant this Tom.”
“What in hell was the point in disguising you if he knows you!”
“She needs to be disguised from other people anyway,” Calla said, trying to head off a scene. “If the man she whacked with the skillet is dead, they might well send the sheriff out for her.”
Fine. But Emma was still irked. They could have been here half an hour ago if they hadn’t spent so much time on Anna’s disguise. Emma bent down to shine the lantern in Tom Slater’s face. He was fast asleep. There was the unmistakable stink of whiskey about him.
Oh, Tom, she thought, what have you done to yourself? For some reason she was disappointed in him. Why, she didn’t know. After all, he could be a regular drunkard for all she knew. Maybe he was never sober. But she was disappointed just the same. She guessed she had expected more from a Slater.
“Maybe he won’t realize that it’s Anna, even if he has met her before?” Calla said hopefully. “It’s a pretty good disguise.”
Emma wrinkled her nose. “There’s no way she can stay hidden on the trail for that long. Not if he’s seeing her every day for that many weeks. I hadn’t planned for her to stay veiled the whole time—she’ll die in the heat. We’ll just have to tell him what happened and pray he plays along,” she said with a sigh. “Anyone with a heart would.” She hoped.
