by Tess LeSue
Quite literally lost today, he realized. He had no idea where they were.
He was also disturbed to see that it was mighty late in the day. Getting on close to midday by the look, and scorching hot already. He’d wasted too much time. Hell, he hoped he hadn’t ridden them right into Deathrider’s path. What if those posses were close by? What kind of idiot was he, getting fall-down drunk when there were men out hunting him? And not just him, but the women he was supposed to be protecting. Nuns. What kind of man led nuns into danger? He ignored his somersaulting stomach and the waves of nausea and gave the surrounds his close attention. He didn’t recognize anything. Wherever they were was nowhere he’d ever been before.
He galloped back to the campsite. If he didn’t know where they were, he better get them moving, or they were at risk of Hec Boehm or Kennedy Voss or some other son of a bitch blundering into them. His best bet was to point them south and hope they’d hit a landmark soon. With any luck, they’d ride into one of the big ranches or he’d find a marker of some kind, or at the very least a fence they could follow.
“We’d best get moving,” he said when he got back.
They were efficient; he had to give them that. The tent was packed and the fire was damped and they were already harnessing the mules. There were four of them in total: two nuns, a señora in a black veil, and a child, who was sheltering from the sun under the canvas of the wagon. The nuns were younger than he expected. Much younger. And prettier, he thought uncomfortably. The tall one might even be called beautiful. Striking, anyways. She put him in mind of a cougar, all slow, graceful movements and tawny eyes. She had a smattering of freckles on her fresh-scrubbed cheeks, and her sharp-cornered mouth seemed to be quirked in a permanent look of amusement. He wondered what led a woman that pretty to be a nun.
“Curious, are you?” she asked, cocking her head. Her question was blunt as a sledgehammer.
He flushed. Had he been staring? He had been, he knew he had been. Which wasn’t like him. What in hell was going on with him? The whore last night, the nun today . . . His brothers would have a field day if they could see him. Matt always said Tom took more interest in cows than in women. Maybe if we could find a girl who was happy to sit in the middle of the herd and wait for him to rope her . . . ? Luke wasn’t convinced: Even if he roped one, he wouldn’t know what to do with her. These days, Alex was likely to chip in too: If you want a lady, you have to talk to them, Tom. Then Matt would start in again: Talk to them? Hell, he has to look at them first. Well, he’d certainly been looking lately. His mind filled with the image of the naked whore: her long legs and rouged nipples and all that glorious bare skin.
He realized the second nun, the little one, was glowering at him. He forced his mind away from the whore.
“Well, Mr. Slater, I would imagine you are curious,” the tall one continued, in a southern accent so thick it was like syrup, “as we haven’t been properly introduced yet. Are you planning on dragging us across country without asking our names?”
His flush became a full-blown blush. He couldn’t really remember last night. Was she saying he hadn’t even introduced himself? “We’ve been in a rush,” he said defensively. He was painfully aware of his poor manners. And on top of his disgraceful behavior last night and his gross display this morning . . .
“It won’t take a minute. I’m Sister Emma.” She held out her hand for him to shake. She had a firm grip. Her skin was warm and smooth.
He had a powerful sense of déjà vu. “Have we done this before?”
“Last night.” She grinned. There was something impish in her expression that didn’t match the nunnish garb. Her eyes sparkled; they put Tom in mind of a gemstone brooch his mother had worn when he was a child. Tiger’s eye, it was called. It had rippled with layers of brown and gold and all the shades in between. But the nun’s eyes had something extra too: twinkles of hazy green, like summer light through oak leaves. The colors swirled and shifted. They were teasing eyes, and they gave Tom the queerest feeling.
“But you didn’t meet everyone last night,” the nun was saying. “Just me.”
He’d held her hand a touch too long, he realized, dropping it like it was a hot coal.
“This here is Sister Calla.” Sister Emma barreled on with the introductions.
The little nun gave him a sharp nod. She didn’t seem to like him in the least. Tom couldn’t say he blamed her.
“And I think you know Winnie.”
The child was peering nervously from the wagon. It was the girl from the whorehouse, he realized. The one who’d brought him the stack of dime novels. He tipped his hat at her, and she ducked back down out of sight. He had to admit he was glad to see the little ‘un get away from La Noche, and who safer to send a child with than a couple of nuns?
“And this . . .” Sister Emma cleared her throat as she introduced the veiled woman in black. “This is . . . Doña Anna del Castillo. She’s headed for the mission at Santa María Magdalena de Buquivaba too.”
“Bienvenida, señora,” Tom said politely, tipping his hat again.
The señora gave a squeak and nodded her head in response. Then she made a dash for the wagon. Tom cringed. He wasn’t making a good impression.
“You speak Spanish?” the little one, Sister Calla, asked him, her almond-shaped eyes lighting up. She was dark eyed and caramel skinned and had a soft Mexican accent.
“Crecí en México,” he told her, feeling her thaw with every word he spoke. “My mother was Mexican. I was born there.”
“Where in Mexico are you from? How long have you been away? I haven’t been home for so many years! I can’t wait to get back.” The little nun erupted in a stream of Spanish. Her eyes were shining as the words flowed from her. She’d definitely thawed.
Tom could see that the taller nun—Sister Emma, the one with the startling golden-green eyes—couldn’t understand a word.
“He’s from Mexico!” Sister Calla told her companion.
“I guessed.” Sister Emma’s lips were quirking again as she watched the little nun take Tom’s arm in delight. Tom wished Sister Emma wouldn’t smile like that. It did strange things to his already weak stomach.
“We have to go,” he said lamely.
“We’ll talk tonight,” Sister Calla said, squeezing his arm. “You can tell me where you’re from.”
“Arizpe. I’m from Arizpe.” He edged out of her grasp.
“Arizpe! But that’s so close to Magdalena.” Sister Calla was just about exploding with joy. “I’m from Magdalena. Just think, we might have met before.”
“I mean originally. Now I’m from Oregon.” At least that’s where he spent his winters.
“Do you know Arturo Robles? Or Don Leon? Or Miguel Ángel Leon?”
“I do,” he replied in Spanish. She lit up like the sun breaking free of clouds. “I do business with Don Leon and his son,” Tom explained.
“You two will have a lot to talk about tonight,” Sister Emma said.
He nodded, keeping his gaze away from her. He wasn’t going to make the mistake of looking at her again. He’d done enough staring for one day.
“We’ve got some traveling to do until then,” he grunted. “We should get going.”
“Wait. I have something for you.” Sister Emma had stepped in his path as he made to leave. “Here.” She handed him a small wooden pail.
He frowned at it.
“It won’t bite you.”
Close up, her eyes were a marvel. Like summer grasses: a perfect blend of gold and wheat, speckled with green. He would have kept staring if she hadn’t turned away to mount her mare. Despite the weight of her robes, she swung athletically into the saddle. The black habit rode up, showing an incredibly long, shapely leg, clad in tight buckskin. She saw him watching and flicked the hem of her habit down, to cover herself.
Goddamn it. He was ogling a nun. Sur
ely, he couldn’t get much lower. He turned his attention to the pail.
“It’s lunch,” she told him. “It’ll be cold, but it’s better than nothing.”
It was much better than nothing. It was good. Once they were riding, he dug into it. She’d packed him some big wedges of fresh bread, and damn if it wasn’t the best bread he’d ever eaten. Now that the nausea was subsiding, he was powerfully hungry. Under the bread, she’d also packed some thick-cut slices of ham and an apple. He was still hungry when he’d finished, so he fished some jerky out of his saddlebag. Shame he’d missed the coffee, he thought. The food had brightened his mood considerably, but coffee would have rounded things off nicely. Before he headed out to scout farther afield, he returned the sister’s pail and thanked her.
“If I’da known you were that hungry, I would have packed more,” she said. She was smiling again. She sure seemed to be a sunny sort, for a nun. Especially for a nun who was being hunted by a man like Hec Boehm. But Tom guessed religious types must have a certain level of fortitude.
“If you’da packed more, I would have eaten it,” he told her. “Especially the bread.”
She looked mighty pleased with herself. God, she was pretty.
Goddamn it. What was wrong with him?
“Are you armed?” he asked abruptly.
“What?” That knocked the sun out of her.
“Do you have a weapon?” he asked. “I need to scout ahead. I might have to go a fair way, and I don’t want to leave you unarmed. I know you got some mean sorts on your tail.”
She flinched and he almost groaned. He forgot he was dealing with a woman. He probably could have done that with more finesse.
“Just in case,” he said hurriedly.
“I have this.” She pulled a Colt from the folds of her habit. Judging by her grip on the stock, she was used to handling it.
“You can fire it?”
“Honey, I can hit a possum at fifty paces.”
He was startled into a laugh. It was the incongruity of her thick accent and cocky expression with the sober black habit. “Not sure how many possums you’ll run into in broad daylight,” he said.
“Aw now, Hec Boehm ain’t much more than a big old fat possum.”
She had kind eyes, he thought stupidly, as he realized she was trying to put him at ease.
“Don’t worry, honey,” she said, “we’ll be fine while you go off scouting. I’ll make sure we follow your tracks. And I’ll keep the pistol handy.”
There was something about her voice, he thought as he rode off through the chaparral. She didn’t sound the way he’d imagined a nun would sound. Her voice was woodsy and slow and full of fun. But then he’d always been a sucker for a southern accent. The whore last night had had one, and so did Alex. They warmed him up like a shot of straight bourbon. Sister Emma’s was stronger than Alex’s, somehow both twangier but also more of a drawl. There were no edges to her words; they ran together like a flow of molasses on a hot day. When she said his name, she made it last for several slow heartbeats.
The booze had muddled him. The booze and the August heat and the sheer bizarreness of the past day. He pulled his hat down lower to block the sun and relaxed into what was going to be a long afternoon of riding. One day he’d find a woman who would steal his heart away from Alex, he reassured himself. Maybe someone with one of those sexy accents. Maybe he should take himself off to the South. He wondered if there were more women like Alex back there in Mississippi. Or maybe he should ask Sister Emma where she was from—he sure did like the way she sounded.
By the time the day was easing, he’d twigged where they were. He steered them slightly westward, so they’d hit the town of Second Carrot in another day or so. He needed provisions if they were going to get down to Mexico. And it was probably a good idea to put their ears to the ground and see if there was any word about those posses. He hoped Deathrider and Micah had cleared Mariposa safely. Someone in Second Carrot would probably have word about the bet in Frisco and whether the bounty hunters were all in a bunch or whether they’d spread out. The news would be too juicy not to have spread.
The nuns looked relieved to hear they were reasonably close to a town. He had the feeling they didn’t completely trust him, which made him cringe in shame. He set store by his reputation as a solid man, and it pained him to have made such a poor impression.
“I guess I got some apologizing to do,” he said eventually, once they’d pitched camp and his chores were done. It had taken him all day to work up to it. The women paused what they were doing and looked up at him, surprised. Sister Emma was kneading a slab of dough, while Sister Calla and Doña Anna were preparing the evening meal. Winnie was standing close by the veiled señora; she’d been quiet and jumpy all evening. The sky was a streaky bay of purples and oranges behind them, and shadows were creeping out from the chaparral and sage. Even though the sun had set, the heat was still rising from the baked earth. It was shaping up to be another airlessly hot night.
“I’m not much of a drinker.” He continued his apology shamefaced. He was glad the light was fading so he didn’t have to see their expressions clearly. “I ain’t been in a state like that in years. There’s no excuse for it, but I’ve been traveling hard and I hadn’t slept or eaten and the booze hit me; I should have known better than to drink, considering I had a responsibility to you. I just want to assure you that it won’t happen again.”
There was a long silence that tested Tom’s nerves. Then Sister Emma started laughing.
“Good Lord, man, you’d think you’d killed someone!” She went back to kneading her bread, still laughing. “You ain’t the first man to fall into the bottle, and you won’t be the last.”
Tom frowned and turned to Sister Calla and the señora. It was impossible to see Doña Anna’s expression through her veil, but he imagined her body language was less amused than Sister Emma’s. Sister Calla merely shrugged and went back to work.
“It wasn’t right,” he insisted, still frowning. “You were my responsibility and I let you down.”
“Oh hush.” Sister Emma shaped her dough into a large ball. “We seem to be doing just fine. We made it out of Mariposa, we’re on the right track, we’ve got a nice supper cooking, and”—she announced with a flourish, dropping her dough into a Dutch oven—“there’ll be fresh bread for breakfast!”
“I made you worry,” he insisted.
“A little worry never killed anyone.” She wiped her floury hands and gave him a sideways look. “And there’s worse in the world than a man who pitched an inconvenient drunk.”
“I’m trying to apologize.”
“I’m trying to tell you that you don’t need to.”
“I want to,” he snapped.
She rose to her feet so they were eye to eye. “Fine. Apology accepted. We forgive you.” Her expression grew impish again. “After all, we’re nuns. It’s what we do.”
Apologizing should have made him feel better, but instead he felt vaguely ridiculous. Maybe it was just women, he thought as the night wore on. He’d never spent much time with womenfolk, and here he was in the middle of nowhere with nothing but females. It made sense that he felt on the back foot. Nothing about women was the same as men. Usually, his men would be sprawled around the fire with a couple of bottles of mescal; they’d be talking and joking and telling off-color tales. Food would be rice and beans. There’d be no tents unless it was raining; the men would sling their bedrolls around the fire, and there’d be tobacco and laughs until their weary bodies led them to sleep.
There was no rice and beans tonight and certainly no off-color jokes. Instead, there was a potpie and quiet. Tom had no idea how they’d managed to magic up a pie so tasty in such a short time, let alone on a campfire. The pastry just about melted when it broke apart. They served it in actual china bowls—no pewter to be seen—and even handed him a napkin.
&nb
sp; “Would you like more, Mr. Slater?” Sister Emma was filling his bowl even as she asked the question.
He had three helpings and mopped up the gravy with the piecrust. He didn’t miss Emilio’s cooking, that was for sure. Although he did miss the ease of being with his men. He felt like an oaf around these ladies. It didn’t help that they were so quiet. He cleared his throat a couple of times and almost spoke, but when their eyes turned to him, he froze up. He didn’t have anything to say to them. He was glad when they retired for the night into their tent. Only then could he relax. He banked the fire and unfurled his bedroll. His mind was overstuffed with the events of the past few days. If he hadn’t stopped by San Francisco, none of this would have happened, he thought wistfully. He’d just be going about his normal life.
Damn Deathrider.
His gaze drifted to the tent, which was glowing like a firefly in the darkness. He could see shadows moving within. He’d always thought nuns were dour old women. Disappointed old women. But these two were young and fresh and happy enough. They seemed to take everything in stride. Doña Anna was far more nunnish than they were. She barely spoke and put him in mind of a bat, with her flowing black veil. Tom wondered if she was off to take her vows at the mission. Some widows did, didn’t they? And why else would she be traveling with nuns?
He hadn’t been raised with much religion himself. They’d had a Bible, which Luke had read from on Sundays . . . when he remembered . . . when he was around and he remembered, anyway. More often than not he wasn’t around, and Matt and Tom tended to leave the Bible on the shelf when he was gone. When more people moved to the valley, they’d taken to going to the informal Sunday services, just to be neighborly. Then Alex had come to town, and her brother was a minister, so after that there were proper services. There was even a little whitewashed chapel in town, and Alex was strict about the whole family attending every week.
