by Tess LeSue
Alex. She’d changed everything. He remembered the day she’d arrived, upending everything as surely as an earthquake. He remembered seeing her on the porch that first time, and competing with Matt for her attention. He’d never seen a woman so pretty in his entire life, or one with such spunk. She’d turned their house upside down, and when everything settled and his idiot brother had finally come to his senses and married her, nothing had been the same again. The house was full of people and noise; there was always coffee on the stove and muddy boots strewn by the door; the dining table was crowded with people and laden with food. And presiding over all of it was Alex, glowing and happy. And at the other end of the table, puffed up with pride like a peacock, was Tom’s brother Luke. Luke, who half the time had no idea how lucky he was.
As he idly watched the stars winking above, Tom wondered for the millionth time if things would have been different if he’d met Alex before Luke had. The familiar daydreams curled to life, simple daydreams of going courting. Of liking a girl and having her like you back.
“Damnation, it’s hotter’n Satan’s armpit in there!” Without warning, Sister Emma exploded from the tent, fighting with the heavy folds of her habit as she went.
Tom’s daydreams blew away like smoke, and he propped himself up, watching as the nun tripped over her skirts and struggled to pull the edges of her coif away from her face. Gone was the composed and quiet woman of earlier in the evening. All of her grace had disappeared, and she was a hot, flustered mess.
“How in all the seven hells do you sleep out here?” she complained. “The earth is like a damn hot plate!”
She sure had a salty mouth for a nun.
“It’s probably cooler outside the tent,” he said mildly.
“You know where it’s cooler? San Francisco! By the sea.” She reached into the tent and yanked out a blanket, which she dumped on the other side of the fire.
He stayed quiet as she settled herself down. Not that she settled at all. She tossed and turned and wrestled with her habit, muttering the entire time. A couple of times he thought he heard a particularly filthy epithet.
The sound of her was oddly soothing. It was more like being with Emilio and the boys.
“Is there any sea nearby where you live, Mr. Slater?” she asked. He could hear her kicking at her heavy skirts.
“Not close by, no.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Not really. I’ve never had much to do with the sea.”
“I’ve never even seen it,” she sighed, “but I always wanted to.”
“You won’t see it in Magdalena. It’s a fair piece inland.”
“You don’t say.” She sounded disgusted. She was silent for about half a minute. “What’s it like?”
“Magdalena? ‘Bout what you’d expect. There’s a mission. Cows.”
“No. Not Magdalena. The sea.”
“Oh.” How on earth did you describe the ocean? “It’s like a big lake, I guess. You ever seen a lake?” He sensed that didn’t please her. “You seen the great prairies?” he asked.
She laughed. “Are you serious? I came west overland—I’ve seen more prairie than a girl ever needs to.”
“The ocean is like that, but with water instead of grass.”
There was silence. He guessed she was trying to imagine it.
“When the wind blows, everything ripples. Instead of seed heads flicking, imagine waves chasing across the surface, all white tipped. It’s like a breathing thing. And it changes color. Sometimes it’s so bright blue and green it don’t seem real, and at other times it’s a real iron gray. The sun glints off it like someone’s thrown silver dollars all across it.”
After another long silence, he heard a soft laugh in the darkness. “Mercy, Mr. Slater, I wasn’t expecting you to be a poet.”
“I ain’t. I’m just telling it like it is.”
There was a soft sigh, so soft he barely heard it. And then the silence held, and they were both left to their thoughts in the darkness.
9
“THIS IS A town?” Emma’s heart plummeted as she looked around. Second Carrot was barely a trading post, let alone a town. There were only two buildings, for heaven’s sake! And they both looked like they might fall down at any moment. “You sure you don’t want to keep going until we find First Carrot?”
He smiled at that. There was clearly a sense of humor in him. He’d be all serious, and then when she made a wisecrack, out came that toe-curlingly gorgeous smile. Which was something, as he was the angriest man she’d ever met. The man carried a veritable anvil of anger around with him. And he was the worst kind of angry too; he was the kind who didn’t even know he was angry. It wasn’t the flashy kind of anger, not the kind that made a man yell or hit; it was the inward kind, the kind that made a body barren and empty eyed. Emma wondered what made him that way. His brothers sure hadn’t been like that. Luke was just about the most happy-go-lucky man she’d ever met, and Matt was just . . . Matt. He acted tough, but inside he was all tender heart. This Slater was something else entirely. He was a volcano . . . The man himself was molten and buried deep.
But you had to give it to him: he was a beautiful volcano. After a couple of days on the trail, he was rumpled and bearded and sultry as all get-out. The rasp of black stubble made his cheekbones and jaw stronger and his lips more pronounced. And then there were his eyes . . . Those eyes were nothing like his brother’s. Where Luke’s were dark, his were green, a faded minty green made even more startling by his jet-black eyelashes. Every time she caught sight of them, all the breath was knocked from her lungs. They were so clear. Like the waters of a shallow creek. Only green.
“There ain’t no First Carrot, Sister,” he said, flicking his reins around the hitching post. It was a very askew hitching post that looked like it had been hammered together by a child. A blind one. “This is all the Carrot you’re going to get.”
They’d settled into a fairly comfortable companionship, she and Tom Slater. Enough that she had relaxed her guard on acting nunnish. Not that she’d done a good job of it in the first place. Calla, on the other hand, got more devout by the minute; any day now she might actually grow a halo. Emma wasn’t one for halos herself. Even if she’d had one—which she most certainly did not—she doubted she could manage to keep it polished. No. It was better to keep your feet solidly on the ground than to go wishing after wings.
“Well, heck. They don’t look like they’d stock much of anything here. They ain’t likely to have another tent, are they?” Emma slid from her horse as the wagon rattled up to join them on Main Street. She knew it was Main Street because there was a sign. Although it wasn’t spelled right. They liked their signs around here. There’d been another one half a mile back: “Wellkom toe Second Carrot!”
“I need another tent,” Emma insisted. “Ours is a furnace with all the bodies crammed in there; I can’t sleep in that hotbox.”
“You haven’t been sleeping in there,” Calla said tightly as she joined Emma and Tom by the store. “You’ve been sleeping outside.”
Emma rolled her eyes. Calla didn’t like the idea of Emma spending the night unchaperoned with Tom Slater. We’re supposed to be nuns, she’d hissed at Emma more times than Emma could count. Have some modesty! Like there was anything immodest about sleeping on the opposite side of the campfire to a man. Besides, she wasn’t a nun; she was a goddamn whore! They all were. The time for worrying about her modesty was long past. You could put a whore in a habit, but it didn’t wash her clean.
“And I’m going to keep sleeping outside if there’s no tent to be had here,” she announced belligerently. “You ought to try it. It’s a hell of a lot cooler. Well, not a hell of a lot. But some.” If she could ditch the habit, the heat would be more bearable. This thing was heavy and scratchy and suffocating, and she was cooking alive in it. When they finally got safely to Magdalena, she was goi
ng to burn the wretched thing.
She stomped up the stairs after Tom and followed him into the building, which had a hand-painted sign reading “Storr.”
“There ain’t no one here.” Emma took in the empty room.
“But the door wasn’t locked,” Winnie said, cautiously inching over the threshold. She’d started coming out of her shell the last day or so.
“Guess because there’s nothing to steal.” Emma ran a finger over the table and wrinkled her nose when it came away thick with dust. “Maybe it’s abandoned.”
“It ain’t abandoned. Stu’s probably just out hunting.” Tom dropped his saddlebags inside the door.
“He should do less hunting and more cleaning.” Emma peered into the recesses of the store. She suspected the shape in the dim corner might be a dead rat. Or maybe a possum. She hoped it was a possum, because it was enormous, and she didn’t fancy running into any giant rats. “How many people live here?” she asked.
Tom shrugged. “It changes, depending. It’s one of those places people pass through. There’s always basic supplies—like beans—and some fresh game.” He cleared his throat. “And they do a pretty fair trade in liquor,” he added.
Emma grinned. Mercy, he was cute when he got embarrassed, and he was still plenty embarrassed about his drinking. That spoke to the quality of the man, she thought. And he’d been a very well-behaved drunk. She sure could tell him some stories about the ways men behaved when they were liquored up . . . Well . . . she could if she weren’t pretending to be a stuffy old nun.
“Liquor is the devil’s drink,” Calla intoned.
Emma almost lost her composure at that. Calla looked away quickly. Emma was relieved to see the girl’s lips twitch. Oh, thank heavens; it was nice to know the old Calla was still in there. Especially since Calla made the best beer in Moke Hill and it would be a tragedy if she quit brewing forever.
But she did like the fetching way Mr. Slater blushed at Calla’s words. High color suited him. Hell, anything suited him.
“Might be best if we pass through quickly then, Sister,” he said awkwardly, tapping his dusty hat against his leg. “This place can get a bit rowdy in the evenings.”
Emma looked around in sheer disbelief. There weren’t no one to get rowdy that she could see. “I think it will be fine,” she assured him. It was late afternoon, and she didn’t fancy rushing, even though it didn’t look like there was much to keep them there. And Second Carrot was better than no carrot at all.
“You sure?” Tom ran an anxious hand through his hair.
“Honey, if we weren’t shocked by the goldfields, we won’t be shocked here.”
“Who said we weren’t shocked?” Calla complained quietly after Tom had gone to see to the animals and set up a campsite. “Your heart ain’t in this nun business.”
“Bite your tongue, little Calida. We both know my heart is exactly where it’s supposed to be.” She slung an arm around Calla’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “I think I’m doing an excellent job. Considering.”
Calla rolled her eyes.
“I’ve kept my clothes on,” Emma teased, “and I haven’t propositioned anyone. Yet.”
“There ain’t been anyone to proposition.”
“Oh ho ho, there ain’t, huh?” Emma nodded at the doorway as Tom Slater ambled past, leading the mules. “That there looks like prime propositioning material.” She sighed admiringly.
Calla snorted. They both knew Emma hadn’t slept with a man in nigh on a year and that she was mighty happy to keep it that way.
Still, a girl could enjoy the view, Emma thought, watching that lovely long man at work. It was such a shame when he moseyed out of sight.
There was a sneeze, and then Anna’s voice came from the back of the Storr. “There’s some fabric back here,” she called. “There might be some canvas you can make into a tent.”
“You’re useful for a fancy lady, ain’t you?” Emma said as she found Anna in the darkened rear storeroom where goods were stacked haphazardly. There were bags of coffee beans next to piles of firewood next to coils of hemp rope next to cook pots, everything teetering in a chaotic maze.
Anna sneezed again. She held out her veil and sneezed a few more times in quick succession.
“Watch out for rodents,” Emma said as she inched cautiously into the chaos. She peered at the rolls of cloth. “None of that looks like canvas.” Something caught her eye. She perked up and dragged it out of the stack. It came with a plume of dust that set both of them off sneezing.
“Look, Calla, cotton!” she exclaimed gleefully, emerging from the storeroom.
“Sister Calla,” Calla reminded her darkly. And that’s when Emma saw they weren’t alone.
Four men hulked in the doorway. They were terrible rough sorts. The sort who gave you pause, even when you met them in full daylight, with witnesses. They seemed nonplussed to have company, particularly female company. All four were armed to the teeth. They’d been hunting, Emma assumed. Hopefully not people. Winnie was just about hiding under Calla’s skirts in fear. Calla wasn’t much bigger than the girl but was standing her ground; on the outside she looked serene, but Emma knew her well enough to see the tension in her. She’d known enough men like these to be wary.
“Well, howdy,” Emma said brightly. She’d learned that brazenness worked best in these situations. Show no fear. Claim control of the interaction before they did. Set the rules. “I assume one of you is the proprietor of this fine establishment? How much for the cotton?”
Thank God she was dressed as a nun. “Wasn’t it a good idea?” she whispered to Calla later, once they’d bought supplies. “No one takes advantage of a nun! He didn’t even haggle with me.”
It turned out the men were more scared of them than they were of the men. The sight of nuns had knocked them sideways. They watched Emma with startled, almost frightened eyes as she chattered at them. By the time Tom came in from sorting the animals, she’d taken care of the introductions and was happily buying provisions. They watched her like she was a wild animal who might turn on them at any minute. Men. Show them a whore and they fell over themselves to get at her; show them a nun and they about wet their pants with fear. Even when it was the exact same woman.
She and Calla bundled up their haul and left Tom to soothe the poor dears.
“What do you need with all that cotton?” Calla asked, bewildered by the armful of fabric Emma was so excited about. “You can’t make a tent out of cotton.”
“Forget the tent. You could give me some praise now and admit it was a good idea for us to dress as nuns. Look how they leave us alone! We’d be in some trouble without these getups.”
“It was a great idea. You’re very clever. Now what’s with the cotton?”
“You’re being smart with me, but I am very clever. I’m going to make us new habits.”
“You’re what?”
Emma grinned. “I’m going to make us cotton habits. So we don’t sweat ourselves out of existence.”
“But it ain’t black!”
“It’s almost black.”
“It’s navy!”
“Navy’s close enough to black. I’d rather be navy and survive the summer than stay in black and be cooked.”
Calla closed her eyes and seemed to mouth a silent Hail Mary. “You can’t,” she said once she’d finished her prayer.
“I can and I shall.” Emma brushed her hands clean of dust. “I can’t see that God cares what color our habits are. In fact, He’s probably outraged at the whole endeavor and has already washed His hands of us. Changing our lie from black to navy ain’t going to send us to hell any faster.”
“But no one will believe it if we’re navy! We won’t look like nuns.”
“Rubbish. Most people are right gullible, Calla. Didn’t I teach you anything?” It was true. Call a sheep a cow, and most peo
ple would go right along with you, so long as you did it confident enough. Look at them inside, treating Anna like she was a grand lady. The original four men had been joined by another half dozen heavily armed ruffians, and each and every one of them was just about bowing to the fancy señora. Luckily, none of them spoke Spanish. It probably wouldn’t even matter if they did; Tom spoke Spanish at Anna the first day or so, and she just remained resolutely silent and eventually he gave up. Probably figured her for the nervous sort. Or maybe he thought she was mute. But it certainly didn’t have him questioning who she was.
“They want to know if we’d care to eat with them,” Tom told them quietly, joining them in their corner of the Storr.
“Guess it would be rude not to,” Emma said cheerfully. “Unless you think it ain’t safe?”
“I reckon it’s safe enough. They’re acting respectful and all.”
They were indeed. Painfully so. They apologized for each curse, darting alarmed looks at the women. “Sorry, Sister,” they mumbled constantly.
“What’s for supper?” Emma asked them, striving for a kind of schoolmarmish chipper tone.
“Possum.”
Of course it was possum. It had to be, didn’t it? She only hoped it was fresh.
“You like possum?” Stu the Storr owner asked, seeming anxious to please.
“I grew up on possum,” Emma told him brightly. That at least was true enough. She’d eaten more possum than she cared to admit. Her daddy trapped them, and her ma turned them into stew, pie, sausages and anything else she could manage. Emma kept her smile fixed in place, even though the memory of greasy possum meat turned her stomach. “Can we add to the table?” she suggested, not quite able to keep the desperation from her voice. “I reckon we can rustle up a couple of dishes too. And I can make some corn bread.”
