by Tess LeSue
It had been a tiresome journey. Everyone was spent before they even started, and the trek was full of tears and spats and raw nerves. Tom had been just about pulling his hair out dealing with a mess of women all on his own. So he nearly melted with relief when Emma started talking to him again.
“I don’t see why you couldn’t have picked somewhere closer.” She said it again, like he hadn’t heard it the first time.
He still couldn’t bring himself to look at her when he answered her, but he answered quickly, before she could change her mind and stonewall him again. “It’s the only place close enough. We’ve nearly gone through all your provisions, so we need somewhere big enough to have well-stocked stores. Besides, I can’t imagine what this lot would do in a speck of a town like Red Deer or Eulalia. We got to get them somewhere where they can make plans, where they can start over, or head home. Ships come and go from San Diego. It’s the best place.”
He darted a glance at her. She’d used her belt to hike the skirts of her habit higher, so she didn’t trip over them as she walked. She was cooking alive in that thing. Her face was tomato colored, and she was dripping sweat. Tom was glad he wasn’t wearing the señora’s dress anymore. He’d rather take his chances with the posses; it was too hot to wear such a stupid getup. He sighed and looked over his shoulder at all the women suffering in their heavy dresses. Who knew women’s clothing was so oppressive?
They did, I guess, he thought ruefully.
“Besides,” he continued, “no posse will expect us to head for San Diego. They’ll think we’re off to Mexico. Or at the very least somewhere less . . . visible. It’s like a double bluff.”
She snorted at that. “Because they’ll never find our trail?”
There was that. They were leaving a trail a blind man could follow.
“Not much I can do about that,” he said. He darted another glance, only to find her staring at him. She jerked her gaze away. He flushed again. What on earth did she think of him? The first time they’d met, he’d been fall-down drunk; he’d gotten them lost and then vomited in the chaparral. Then she’d seen him dressed as a woman and shot; not to mention that she’d seen him spend his savings on slaves instead of handling it like a hero. A real man would have done violence to those bastards. Luke would have fought. So would Matt. Hell, neither of them would have let the girl get taken in the first place. If it had been Luke, he would have disarmed the Georges and there would have been no need to have gone to Gran Rancho de Gato in the first place. He would have handed the Georges over to the vaqueros, and they would have gone on their merry way. That’s what Luke would have done.
Which was why women loved him.
Would Sister Emma love him too, if she met him?
Tom was surprised by the force of the jealousy he felt at the thought. It was stronger than the feeling he had when he thought about Luke and Alex.
Of course Emma would love Luke. Every woman loved Luke. The only woman he’d ever seen immune to him was Georgiana, and that was only because Georgiana couldn’t tear her gaze away from Matt long enough to even look at another man.
Ah hell, what did it even matter? The woman was a nun. She’d chosen her husband, and He was God. He couldn’t compete with that, and nor should he want to.
“At least you’ll get to see the ocean,” he sighed, as he slogged along, trying to push away his turbulent thoughts. “I know you always wanted to.”
“Have you been to San Diego before?” Her curiosity was getting the best of her pique; she thawed a little at tell of the ocean.
“Yeah.”
He heard a gusty sigh. “Well, come on, poet, what’s it like?”
“Flat. Dusty. There aren’t any trees.”
“That ain’t poetic. You can do better.”
She still sounded a touch sour. He pulled a face. “It’s on the bay, which ain’t as pretty as the actual ocean. It’s kind of flat too. And it ain’t big. It kind of looks like a river. But on our way out we can go by the beach. We can mosey along the coast for a fair way, if you like the look of all that water.”
“Fine. Don’t do better.” Now she sounded more than a touch sour.
He sighed. He knew exactly what she wanted. And he’d be an ass not to give it to her, considering the state of their relationship. He took a breath. “The beach is so long it seems to go on forever. If you were to follow it, you’d eventually reach sandstone cliffs that turn the color of butter in the evening sun, and when that sun sets into the sea, it’s like the world is reflected on itself, all upside down and backward. And sometimes, when the light is just right, you can’t tell where sky ends and the water begins. It all becomes one big watercolor. Sometimes it’s the color of the shells that wash up on the shore, all pale pinks and purples, with a darker blush near the heart of it; other times it blazes red as a whore’s best dress.”
She arched an eyebrow at that, and he regretted the image. Who talked about whores to a nun? Especially after molesting her.
“Who says a whore’s best dress is red?” she muttered as she dropped back. “Who says it wouldn’t be pink?”
* * *
• • •
“I HATE THIS place.”
“You hate everything lately,” Calla said mildly. She wouldn’t have said it so mildly twenty-four hours ago, but a lot could change in twenty-four hours. Emma guessed that listening to her bitch and moan as they kicked dust across California was a far sight more irritating than listening to her bitch while soaking in a tub in a nice little room in San Diego. Through the open window, they could smell salt on the breeze.
Emma had been disappointed in her first sight of the sea. It was flat, reflecting white sunlight like a blank mirror. It wasn’t anything like she’d imagined. It looked so . . . boring.
“You won’t feel so glum after a bath.” Calla sighed happily as she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. On the table beside her, she had a glass of Mexican wine. The passel of freed women and children had been delivered to the U.S. Army barracks, which were housed in the old Spanish mission. The captain had been a bit bewildered by all the ex-captives but had pledged to do his best to help them. Especially after Tom had handed over Emma’s gold nugget as a bribe. She’d spent the week hiding it in his saddlebags, only to find it reappear in her carpetbag every morning. When the captain had proven to be less than helpful, Emma had wordlessly passed Tom the nugget. He’d sighed and passed it along. And of course, with the weight of gold in his hand, the captain’s concerns went away.
Then it was just the five of them again. Tom led them to a boardinghouse and ordered hot baths and food, and they’d all disappeared into their separate rooms. Emma doubted she’d see him again until they headed out in a couple of days. He’d all but run away from her just now.
“I ain’t glum,” Emma snapped at Calla as her friend lolled in the bath. “I’m . . . irked.”
Calla cracked an eyelid. “Irked? Or pent up?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Emma avoided her friend’s gaze and poured herself a glass of wine from the jug. She moved to the window and took a healthy slug of it. There was no bay view here; their window looked out on a wall. There were chickens in the run between the two buildings. Emma could hear them brooding.
“You don’t know what I mean?” Calla laughed. “I imagine our Mr. Slater don’t know either, then.”
Emma scowled at the wall.
“You two got more energy between you than a lightning storm. You just about make my hair stand on end.”
“He thinks I’m a goddamn nun.” Emma finished the wine and poured herself another.
“That’s fixable.”
“Is it?”
Calla opened both eyes now and wriggled upright. “You know very well it is. All you have to do is tell him that you’re not a nun.” She paused. “Which you’re not,” she reminded Emma.
“But Hec . . .”
Calla blew a raspberry. “Hec nothing. Hec won’t be looking for you here. With any luck, he’s been scalped by Apaches already. If not, he sure ain’t looking for a bald woman in San Diego.”
Emma rubbed her naked head.
“Hec’s just an excuse,” Calla said scornfully.
Emma sighed. “I know it.” She collapsed on the bed and pouted at the floor. “I wish I weren’t a whore.”
“You ain’t a whore.”
“But I was. Most of my life I’ve been a whore. He’s not going to want me.”
Calla went all pinch mouthed at that. “How do you know? You ain’t asked him.”
Emma kicked her heels against the floorboards. “It ain’t just the whore thing,” she admitted.
The silence stretched out.
“Well, are you going to tell me, or are you going to make me guess?”
Emma grimaced. “I might have slept with his brother,” she said with a wince.
Calla sat bolt upright at that. Water went sloshing in the tub. “You what?”
“I slept with his brother.” She covered her face with her hands. Then split her fingers so she could peer out at Calla. “I fancied myself in love with him,” Emma confessed, feeling hideously vulnerable as she did so.
“Ah.” Calla winced in sympathy. “He was a customer?”
“Sometimes.” Emma shrugged. “But sometimes it was something else. He would have called it a freebie, but to me it was . . . special.”
Calla nodded. She understood. Things got complicated in bedrooms.
“How do I tell him that?” Emma asked despairingly.
“I don’t know.” Calla held out the wine jug. “But I’m glad it’s you and not me.”
“Thanks.”
“Maybe you could not tell him?” Calla grinned. “Just enjoy it for what it is. I don’t see why he has to know.”
Emma took the jug. Enjoy it for what it is. There was the problem, wasn’t it? What it was. Tom Slater could never take her home to his family. Even if he could get over the business about her being a whore, he’d never be able to get over Luke. And neither would Luke’s wife, or anyone else in the family.
And who could blame them?
Emma stared into the ruby-colored wine. She’d been having silly fantasies this last week. Fantasies about Tom Slater and his magnificent body, yes, but also fantasies about . . . more than that. About his boots by her back step, his clothes in her cupboard, his head on her pillow. Not just for a night, or a bunch of nights, but for all time.
God help her, she’d been dreaming about marriage as she kicked through the Californian dust on the way to San Diego. That was what Tom Slater had brought her to.
“I’m going for a walk,” she sighed, putting the wine aside. “I’m going to see if a sunset improves that flat bit of seaside.” She struggled to put her cowl and veil back on, but she was good enough at it these days that she didn’t need help.
“Emma?” Calla called as she went to leave. “Do you remember what you said to me the time I fancied myself in love with that Irishman?”
Emma paused in the doorway.
“You said, ‘Enjoy it while you can.’” Calla gave her a sympathetic smile. “‘Save up the good times, for when times ain’t so good.’”
Emma nodded, but she didn’t feel cheered. She wasn’t about to listen to herself. Her advice was a bunch of rubbish. She’d done nothing but make a mess of her life. And when it came to men, her choices were especially terrible.
She left Calla to her bath and wandered out into the street. San Diego wasn’t anything like she imagined. She’d had an image in her head of an exotic Spanish-style town, but in actual fact it was just a bunch of rough buildings on a flat patch of land by the bay. It was just another dusty frontier town in Emma’s eyes.
She wandered until she found a quiet spot by the water. It hardly even seemed to dignify the name bay, she thought sourly. It didn’t look much different from a river. On the other side of the not-very-wide not-river was more flat land. Distantly, she could hear waves. But she couldn’t see them. It was all just so disappointing, she thought, and she didn’t really mean the view.
“The ocean proper is still a fair piece away.”
She wasn’t the only one out for a wander, it seemed. Her heart jumped to her throat at the sound of his voice. She turned to see Tom Slater standing behind her, his hands deep in his pockets as he squinted at the setting sun. Unlike her, he’d bathed. His dark hair was still damp. And he’d shaved, she thought witlessly, taking in the smooth planes of his face.
She was in trouble. Bad trouble. She didn’t think she’d ever felt so acutely aware of a man before. Not even Luke Slater had made her witless like this. And with every day she spent in Tom’s presence, the feeling only seemed to grow. Sometimes, when she caught his river-ice green eyes, the feeling in her stomach was so intense it was practically a pain.
“This is a funny little patch of water,” he told her, still squinting at the sky. “It’s got layers to it, with the water winding around spits of land. It’s not wild, like the ocean. It’s puts me in mind of a corral. I guess ships ain’t too different from cows in that way.”
She gave the water a dubious look. There weren’t any ships there, and she didn’t quite believe that any could fit in such a piddly bit of water.
Why was he here talking to her? He’d been ornerier than a bee-stung bear around her since the morning they’d woken in each other’s arms. Why was he talking to her now?
Oh hell, she thought as an idea hit her: had she interrupted him? Had he been here before her, just trying to get a minute’s peace? Had she come barreling in, imposing on him?
“I followed you,” he blurted, not looking away from the sinking sun. The peachy light made his skin glow.
“What?” Emma thought she must have misheard him.
“I saw you leave from my window, and I followed you.” He was looking all bee-stung again. “I thought we could make peace.”
“We ain’t at war.”
“That’s how I know we ain’t at peace.” He gave her a sheepish grin. “Our normal state is at war.”
“I’m never at war,” she objected reflexively. “I’m a woman of peace.”
“A woman of tearing me to pieces.”
He was teasing her. He hadn’t done that in days. The way he was looking at her was playing havoc with her insides. How could a man look coiled and capable, but also careful and kind? It was a deadly combination.
“Thought I’d sit here and watch the sunset if you want to join me.”
What was he playing at? Why was he being so nice to her?
Feeling like a green girl, Emma sat next to him. There was nothing to sit on but the ground, so they sat on the ground. Emma drew her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on top.
It was a pretty sunset. Much prettier than the puny little bay deserved. The sky was stacked with clouds, stained all kinds of orange and gold. The narrow stretch of water blazed as the sun slanted low across it. Tom wasn’t a talker at the best of times, and he certainly didn’t talk now. Emma had never met a man so comfortable with his own company before. She wished she could have an ounce of that kind of serenity. It was driving her nuts to sit here quietly. Her mind bounced from topic to topic, and she almost spoke a dozen times. But gradually, the silence sank in and she found herself calming down. Shafts of light speared through the clouds, catching the dust in the air and making it glitter.
She was intensely aware of him. The deep, slow rhythm of his breathing, the tangy smell of soap, the solidness of him at her side. She turned her head and rested her cheek on her knee, so she could watch him. She watched the wind blow a lock of hair over his eye. Absently, he flicked it away. As he did, he caught her staring. But this time she didn’t look away; she didn’t want to look away. T
heir gazes locked. The moment stretched out. The sound of the wind and the faint roar of waves receded; all Emma could hear was the rush of blood in her ears. He stared at her so intently, he didn’t seem to blink. And the look in his eye . . . there was curiosity, fascination, bewilderment . . . but most of all, desire.
Oh, who cared, Emma thought in an impulsive burst. Who cared if she’d been a whore. Who cared if she was stone-cold terrified? Who cared if he wouldn’t stay with her forever? That there might only be now? What did any of it matter when there was this?
Save up the good times, for when times ain’t so good.
Maybe her advice wasn’t all bad. Maybe she could work with it.
I choose good, she thought with a groan, giving up the battle. She lunged forward and kissed him. She’d wanted to kiss him since she first saw him, and if she wasn’t wrong, he’d felt the urge too. She took him by surprise with her lunge, and he tumbled backward, his elbows giving out beneath him. She went with him, kissing him with every ounce of passion that she’d pushed down all these weeks.
He moaned and seized her by the arms. For a minute, she was afraid he’d push her away, but he didn’t. He hauled her closer, rolling her over and pinning her to the ground. His mouth slanted hungrily over hers, his tongue plunging into her.
Nobody had ever kissed Emma like this in her entire life. And that was a shock to her. She didn’t think she had any surprises left when it came to kisses and men, but it looked like Tom Slater was about to show her some new tricks.
He kissed like he lived: intensely, with immaculate attention to detail. His big hand cradled her head as he opened her mouth with his lips and tongue. His thumb rubbed a spot behind her ear that made her melt, while his other hand slid beneath her body, lifting her against him. She squirmed, wishing she could feel more of him, but the thick black habit got in the way. He felt her squirm and pulled her harder against him, until she could feel him settle between her legs. He was a divine weight. If she hadn’t been trapped by the habit, she would have wrapped her legs around him and wriggled even closer. His tongue was driving her wild. And then he gave her lower lip a long, slow suck, and she just about lost her mind. She was trembling as she plunged her hands into his hair. It felt like silk between her fingers. She met him with her own tongue, sliding into the slick warmth of his mouth. The heat of it, the force . . . Emma couldn’t do much more than hold on for dear life. It was like being in the middle of a storm.
