Velvet Thunder

by Teresa Howard

  She was about to faint for the first time in her life. She would probably be trampled by the masses gawking at the evidence of Heath’s wealth. Her panic rose to the degree that her consciousness wavered. She moaned.

  “Honey?” Wheeling toward her, Heath wrapped his arms around her. She lost consciousness and he lifted her high against his chest. Beset by worry, he carried her aboard.

  Forty-six

  Stevie’s first impression was that heaven was made of brocaded satin, polished wood, shiny brass, and pastel pink light.

  Her second was that paradise rocked back and forth. She would have to speak to His host of angels about that. Continual motion was not heavenly in her estimation. Not when a gal suffered the evils of morning sickness.

  She struggled upright, only to be assaulted by another wave of nausea. This was not heaven. Hell maybe, but not heaven.

  Alerted by her sound of distress, Heath crossed the Pullman and knelt at her side. “Honey?” Replacing the cool cloth on her brow, he kissed her cheek lightly. “How do you feel?”

  “Sick to my stomach.” She wanted to bite back the words as soon as they slipped past her lips. The last thing she wanted Heath to know was that she was pregnant.

  His brow furrowed. “Was it something you ate at the hotel?” Not giving her time to answer, he continued. “We’ve already left Kansas City. But I’ll have the conductor unhitch us in St. Louis. I know a doctor there. He studied with Chap and Rad.”

  Stevie opened one eye. She was concerned by the worry and fatigue clouding Heath’s visage. “No. I’m all right. We’ll go on to New York.”

  He wanted to disagree; she could see that. But he also wanted to hurry to his father’s side. “I’m fine, really.”

  “Why did you faint?”

  She tried to sit again. This time she noticed that she was naked beneath the sheet. Clutching the sheet to her chest, she demanded, “Where are my clothes?”

  “Gone.”

  She looked as if she would do him physical harm.

  He arched his eyebrows twice and gave her a seductive grin. He had discarded his vest, pulled his white shirt from the waistband of his jeans, and unbuttoned the shirt hallway down his chest. He was bootless, sockless, and looked like he had been through hell. But sexy and gorgeous just the same.

  She experienced the desire only he could call forth. Looking away, she tamped down the inclination to throw her arms around him. “By the way,” she began dryly, “what did you do with Christina?”

  “That depends on when you’re talking about,” he teased unmercifully.

  “Never mind. I don’t want to know.” She groaned and fell back to the bed.

  He frowned again. “Are you sure you can wait till New York to see a doctor, sugar?”

  Alarm bells clanged in Stevie’s head. “I didn’t say I’d see a doctor in New York.”

  He affected a look that was very like Pepper’s favorite jackass. “You’re not going to see a doctor. You’re going to see two doctors. My brothers.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Okay. If you say so, I’ll see them.”

  He was suspicious of her capitulation, given the mulish look in her eyes.

  “But I don’t intend to let them see me. Professionally, that is.”

  Just as he would argue with her, she declared that she was about to be sick. He wrapped the sheet around her and carried her from the sitting room, through the bedroom, into the bathing area. It held a white porcelain hip bath, chamber pot, and basin. It was the warmest area of the car, too warm given her present condition.

  She allowed him to hold her head while she paid homage to the porcelain pot. Mentally, she cursed every male with the equipment to get a woman in the family way.

  “Are you comfortable on the lounging sofa, or do you want me to put you to bed?” His smile could only be called a leer.

  “The sofa.” Wide-eyed innocence, she added, “It’s perfect for one.”

  Heath might have told her that two could lie on it quite nicely. But she would undoubtedly ask how he had come about that knowledge. And since gentlemen didn’t kiss and tell . . . and she was undoubtedly still smarting about Christina, he decided to keep that information to himself. Smiling mysteriously, he carried her back to the sofa.

  “What will Jeevers think if we share this car all the way to New York? I don’t want him to think I’m just another of your Christinas.”

  “He won’t. I told him you’re my wife.”

  She frowned. “And what do you intend to tell him when we reach your home and he finds out the truth?”

  He ignored her question. “I’ll think of something. Until then, we’re sharing this car and I’m going to take care of you. So you may as well accept the inevitable and save your energy.”

  Her frown grew in size and intensity. How would she keep her pregnancy a secret from Heath if they were cooped up in such close quarters day and night? “I don’t need a nursemaid . . .” she began. “I can hire a berth in another part of the train and take care of myself.” As if to dispute her bold claim, she turned a curious shade of green.

  “Can you make it to the bath this time?”

  Lips clamped together, she shook her head, no.

  He dove for the shiny brass spittoon across the room and thrust it beneath her face just in time.

  The contents of her stomach made a hasty exit. She was desperately ill, terribly confused, and terminally embarrassed, but still in possession of a wry sense of humor. “You sure you wanta share this car with me?”

  Heath failed to appreciate the jest. “You’re not leaving my sight until I turn you over to Rad and Chap.”

  She wanted to disagree, but was too busy being sick to argue.

  Stevie confided in the maid who cleaned their rooms that she was pregnant and wanted to keep it a secret from her “husband.” The kind woman smuggled her an ample supply of salty crackers and instructed her to eat several upon awakening, before raising her head off the pillow.

  After the first morning, Stevie was quite convinced the woman was brilliant. The crackers worked wonders, temporarily. She was able to make it all the way to the privacy of the bathing area before retching her insides out.

  With Heath none the wiser.

  Sitting in the dining area, perusing the morning paper, Heath took a sip of lukewarm coffee.

  “More coffee, sir?” the oversolicitous waiter at his elbow asked.

  Heath replaced his china cup in the saucer and nodded. He sighed, marveling at how easily he fell back into the role of wealthy gentleman. Turning his head to the side, he caught his reflection in the window. An ebony-haired, sapphire-blue-eyed gunslick smiled back at him. Dressed in jeans, shirt, vest, and boots, his Colt tied to his muscular thigh beneath the table, he looked anything but an aristocratic gentleman. But he would be dressed fit for a morning at his exclusive gentlemen’s club when they disembarked in New York. His mother would be scandalized otherwise.

  He couldn’t help but wonder what Stevie would think of him, all decked out like a Wall Street banker. His smile widened at the notion. As if his thoughts summoned her, she approached. He stood and seated her. His smile disappeared.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I don’t like the way you look.”

  Hormones on the rampage, Stevie drew herself up as if she were insulted. “I’m sorry you don’t like my clothes.” In her men’s attire, she had been stared at ever since they boarded the train. It was beginning to wear on her nerves. “I’m getting good and damn tired of being gawked at. You’d think these people have never seen a woman in breeches before.”

  He hadn’t been talking about her clothes, but her tirade distracted him. “They probably haven’t. It’s against the law, you know.”

  “What’s against the law?”

  “For a lady to dress in men’s clothes.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  He laid his hand over his heart, covering his U.S. marshal’s star. “Swear to God. It’s
a misdemeanor.”

  “You mean you could arrest me for what I’m wearing.”

  “Technically, yes.”

  Unease settled on her face.

  “Don’t worry, hon. When we reach New York tomorrow, I’ll have Ann outfit you first thing with one of her frocks.” He shook his head when she began to rebut. “But I wasn’t referring to your clothes, and I suspect you know it. I was talking about your skin color.”

  Eyes wide, she tossed her head back and opened her mouth to speak.

  He seamed her lips with his fingertips. “Don’t even think of turning that remark into a racial slur. I declare, you’re as ill as a sore-tailed cat. I hardly know what to say to you anymore.” Like most men when confronted with an emotional, irrational female, he was totally at a loss, and utterly bewildered.

  Stevie was properly chastised. She knew her emotions were running amuck these days, that it took next to nothing to reduce her to tears . . . or anger. She snapped like an irascible turtle with little or no provocation. “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s no need to apologize, sugar. I’m just worried about you. You don’t look well. You have no color whatever in your cheeks.”

  “I’m all right.” She had told him as much a dozen times since leaving Kansas City. “Really.” Her voice quivered and she cursed her missishness.

  He reached across the table and covered her hand. “Poor baby.”

  A month ago she would have considered the endearment condescending and put a few holes in his hide. But now it touched her. She had become a stranger to herself. Of late, she was unsettled, emotional, unreliable. How was she to get the best of Judge Jack if she couldn’t control herself any better than this? Breathing deeply, she looked out the window, pretending to study the countryside rushing past at a rapid twenty-five-mile-an-hour clip.

  Heath released her hand as the waiter approached.

  “Madam. May I serve you?”

  She didn’t even turn around. “Tea and dry toast.”

  “Sir?”

  “I’ll have a tall stack of flapjacks, three eggs, biscuits, buttered toast and orange marmalade, oatmeal, sausage, and bacon. And bring us both some orange juice,” Heath ordered his usual breakfast automatically.

  Once they were alone, Heath covered her hand again. “Sweetheart, you haven’t eaten enough to keep a bird alive on this trip.”

  She met his eyes then. “I guess I’m just nervous about meeting your family.”

  He nodded, appearing unsettled by her response. An uneasy quiet settled over them until they were served.

  “Thank you,” Stevie said weakly, not touching the meager meal before her.

  Heath studied her surreptitiously. Instead of diving into his hefty breakfast, he pushed back in his chair.

  Stevie raised her gaze and discovered him watching her intensely. She paled. He knew about the baby. She was convinced of it. Dear Lord, what should she do, confess? She still couldn’t accept his marriage proposal. Though their love was undeniable, his wealth made her feel as if they were further apart than ever. She needed more time; she just wasn’t ready for a lifelong commitment.

  But Heath would never give up his child. She knew that as surely as the sun rose and set.

  “About my family . . .” he began at length.

  Stevie almost collapsed with relief. “What about your family?”

  “I feel that I should warn . . . I mean, explain to you about my mother.”

  Stevie’s brow furrowed. “What about her?”

  “She’s . . . she’s different.”

  “And I’m not?” She tried to shrug his concern off.

  He searched for words to describe India Turner, words that wouldn’t frighten Stevie and send her back to Adobe Wells on the first train traveling west. “Mother’s very straight-laced. Some would say intolerant. If she disapproves of a person, she doesn’t take great pains to hide the fact. And far as I know, there aren’t many people she deems . . . suitable.”

  “And you think she won’t find me suitable?”

  Heath raised his gaze. “Frankly, sweetheart, I doubt it.”

  Stevie was surprised. She had been certain that he would lie. That he would reassure her, tell her that his mother would love her, or at least tolerate her.

  She wanted to defend herself, persuade him that old people—red and white—usually found her quite worthy of their esteem. The elderly, babies, and animals, they all liked her. Pa said that was to her credit. You couldn’t fool old people, babies, and animals. If they liked you, your good character was unquestionable. And they did. They liked her. Old people, babies, and . . .

  Heath broke into her silent ravings. “But you must not take anything she says or does personally”—he paused—“you can’t imagine how awful she was to Kinsey, Chap’s wife.”

  “Your mother doesn’t like your sister-in-law?”

  “Actually, she doesn’t like either of them.”

  “Whyever not?”

  “They’re Southerners.”

  Her expression was blank. “And?”

  “Mother has very strong feelings about class and geographical distinction.”

  “And equally strong feelings about the kind of women who are good enough for her sons?”

  Acknowledging her insight, he nodded. “But it really doesn’t matter what she thinks. It certainly didn’t to Rad and Chap. All that mattered to them was that they loved Kinsey and Ginny.” His voice softened. “As I love you.”

  She closed her eyes momentarily. How could she fight his mother and her own feelings of insecurity at the same time? And were there other Christinas she would have to deal with? She pushed the unpleasant thought aside. “What about the rest of your family? Will they hate me too?” The emotions she was trying so desperately to hide were evident in her husky tones.

  “Absolutely not. And, honey, Mother won’t hate you. Precisely.”

  “Precisely?”

  “I’m not explaining this very well. You’ve got to understand how mother was raised. Strictly. By an English nanny. You can’t imagine some of the notions the woman instilled in her.”

  Her open expression invited him to continue.

  He searched his mind for pertinent examples. “Silly things really. Like one must not place books written by male authors and those by female authors on the same shelf in the library.”

  Stevie appeared stunned, then burst out laughing. “You’re just making that up.”

  “I’m not. I swear. That’s not even the strangest rule of propriety that Mother and her cronies cling to.” He had been living in the West so long, it was hard to remember the rules of society that had once been as natural to him as breathing. Before long it all came rushing back. “She won’t let us back up to a fire and warm our . . . well, you get the picture.”

  “Warming your cold butt’s not proper?” Stevie asked irreverently.

  “Heavens no. And a lady”—the way he emphasized “lady” made her squirm—“never says butt. In fact, a lady doesn’t say many seemingly innocent words in mixed company. Such as stomach. And one would never utter such personal words as shirt, trousers, breeches. They’re called inexpressibles.” Heath was warming to his subject. “And one never reports that they’re going to bed.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Too sexual. One retires. That’s proper.”

  Speaking of bed, Stevie regarded him with a mixture of longing and incredulity. A slow smile spread across her face. “I can hardly believe that you’re her son.”

  Heath felt as if Stevie had just complimented his masculinity. He sat a bit straighter in his chair. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” A mischievous light brightened her eyes.

  “Don’t suppose I should request son-of-a-bitch stew for supper.”

  “Not unless you want Mother to faint.”

  “That might be worth remembering,” she mumbled to herself.

  “Actually, there are any number of foods she considers improper. Apples, artichokes, chestnu
ts, chocolate, garlic, leeks, dates. The list goes on and on.”

  Stevie was clearly thunderstruck. “What on earth is wrong with them?” She was strangely fascinated with this world of propriety of which she was sadly ignorant.

  “They incite lust, make one virile.”

  “How did you get so big?” she blurted out.

  Heath almost choked on his coffee. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not talking about that!” She colored becomingly. “I mean, how did you grow so big if there were so many foods she wouldn’t allow you to eat?”

  “Oh, we ate them.” He winked at her. “The general insisted that his sons be given double portions.” His smile dimmed. “Mother abstained, of course. And she forbade my sisters to partake of such foods . . . as long as they were respectable, asexual females.”

  “I shudder to ask. But what’s a respectable, asexual female?”

  “A fancy word for a virgin.”

  She widened her eyes, looking as innocent as a downy-faced tot. Then for Heath’s ears only, she whispered, “Thanks to you, that leaves me out.”

  “Mmmm. It sure does.”

  Sexual sparks shot between them, sufficient to ignite the white linen cloth covering the table. The fact that they were in a public place dawned on them at the same time.

  Stevie cleared her throat. When she spoke, her voice was noticeably thick, however. “It might be educational meeting a person like your mother.”

  “That’s one way to put it.”

  “As long as I refrain from warming my butt by the fire, swilling hot chocolate, and eating artichokes and chestnuts.”

  They chuckled together. He lifted her hand to his lips and brushed it lightly with his kiss. His stomach growled loudly. Having the matter of his mother behind them, he attacked his breakfast. When the delicate china plates were empty and he was full, he noticed that Stevie had yet to touch her toast. “Honey, aren’t you hungry?”