"You've grown hard, Janice. After I've come all this way, shouldn't you invite me in? We're old friends, after all. I'd like to hear how you're doing."
Once upon a time that silky voice and knowing smile would have turned her into jelly. They were even more effective now that he'd grown a mature man's confidence. He wasn't as tall as Peter, but he was wide-shouldered and well made. She could imagine him seducing girls in every town between here and Ohio. She was no longer one of them.
"We were never friends, Stephen. I was a stupid kid who idolized you and you were a selfish bastard who used me. You haven't got anything I want and vice versa. Now get out of here before I go for the gun."
His smile diminished slightly. "You don't really mean that, Janice. I've never loved another woman but you. I thought I was doing you a favor by staying away rather than dragging you down the holes I fell in. I came looking for you as soon as I got back on my feet."
In another time and place she might have been swayed, but Peter had shown her what a real man was. A real man stayed around even when trouble was neck deep. A real man sought solutions instead of excuses. A real man made commitments instead of promises.
They might still have their differences. Peter might have a few explanations to make. But the reason she was here was because he had taught her he could be trusted, that he wouldn't run in the face of adversity. Stephen didn't even come close to measuring up to the yardstick Peter had set.
"Well, you've found me. Now you can turn around and go back. I've got work to do." She started toward the house.
Stephen grabbed her elbow and jerked her back around. Janice saw Betsy jump from her seat, and she shook herself free.
"Don't ever do that again, Stephen Connor," she warned him while Betsy hovered uncertainly in the background. "Now go before you upset my sister. She's likely to tell Peter, and he isn't likely to look at this calmly."
Stephen threw a look over his shoulder to the golden-haired child beside the easel. His expression wasn't particularly pleasant when he turned back to Janice. "You can't deny me my child, Janice. She's no more your sister than I am your brother. You can lie to the rest of the world. You can lie to your husband. But you can't lie to me. She's the spitting image of my mother. She's mine."
"Don't delude yourself, Stephen." Janice shook so hard inside that she was surprised her words came out straight. She forced herself to concentrate on the words and not the terror. "There isn't a court in the world that will accept your word over mine. Now tell me what it is that you really want and get out of here."
He reached to touch her hair. This time, she didn't hesitate. She smacked his arm sideways.
"Keep your hands to yourself, Stephen. I will not be publicly mauled. Just name it straight out. What do you want from me?"
She stood straight and unbending, the mountain breeze whipping rebellious tendrils of fine hair about her face and plastering the thin cotton of her dress against her. There wasn't much mistaking the look in Stephen's eyes as they fell to her breasts, but she didn't give an inch. Reluctantly he raised his gaze back to her face.
"I want you back. You're the one reason I kept going all these years. Whenever the going got tough, I'd see your face and know I couldn't quit. I've worked hard and I came to take you back. Look at how he's got you living. This isn't what you were meant for. The parsimonious bastard has a bank full of money and he makes you live like a tramp. You can't stay here. I'll take you and the kid back to civilization where you belong."
Janice wondered how long he'd practiced this speech. She hadn't realized until now that all the pretty words he'd ever said to her had been memorized verses from his book of seduction. Even after all these years she had hoped there really had been something between them, that he really had meant to come back for her. Disillusionment left a sour taste in her mouth, but it was better swallowed now when she had a promising future ahead of her. She wished Peter were here.
"I don't buy horse manure anymore, Stephen. I'm happily married and have no intention of leaving my husband. You're too late. If you'd been half a man, you'd have come back for me after you seduced me. But you abandoned me and I have no intention of ever forgiving you for that. Get that through your head now and leave."
Betsy was packing up her paints. Janice edged in her direction, meaning to place herself between Stephen and her daughter.
"You're wrong, Janice. I came back for you, but your father told me you were gone. I tried again later, but you'd disappeared. I had nothing to offer you then. I just wanted to see you again. It got worse after that, and I thought you were better off without me. You're a beautiful woman. I knew you could have any man you wanted. I tried to do what was best for you."
"Save it for another fifteen-year-old virgin, Stephen," she answered wearily, keeping her eye on Betsy. "I've been through hell and back since then, and I don't believe anything I can't see with my own eyes. What I'm seeing with my eyes right now is a pile of horse manure."
She had never talked like this to anyone in her life, but she didn't seem to get through to him in any other way. She wanted him gone, five minutes ago, preferably.
"Let me prove myself then. I'll stay around and help you out until your husband comes back, if he's coming back. I hear in town he's disappeared. You might need me. Don't send me away yet."
He struck a low blow, hitting all her fears, crumpling all her careful barriers. Pain shot through her, tears formed in her eyes, but still she wouldn't bend. Peter had to be alive. She couldn't believe anything different.
Janice shook her head decisively. "I'll give you to the count of ten before I go for the gun. One." She started walking toward Betsy. "Two." She was practically running by the count of five.
She caught Betsy's hand and started for the house and the gun. Stephen was already swinging back onto his horse.
He smiled down at Betsy. "Hello there, Betsy. You're just as pretty as your mother, you know that? Shall I bring you some rock candy when I come back?"
Janice wished she'd gone for the gun first.
Sending Betsy into the house with a gentle shove, she glared up at Stephen. "Ten."
Then she turned and strode after Betsy.
He rode off before she had to display the shotgun.
Chapter 31
"We've got enough to pay off the loan, Mulloney. Snow's coming. We're not going to find anything up here in winter. Let's get out while we can. There aren't enough supplies to last a blizzard."
Shouldering his pick, Townsend weighed the pouch of gold in his palm, his eyes shadowed as he watched his partner. Mulloney was sweating like a hog even though the temperature was so cold they could see their breaths. The man was sick. He could barely lift the tool in his hands. But he still swung futilely at the side of the mountain.
"I can't go back as broke as I came in," Mulloney muttered obstinately. He was swaying where he stood.
"Your wife would rather have you alive and broke than dead and rich," Townsend offered cautiously. He knew little enough about Mulloney's family and background, but he'd guessed a lot. He wasn't certain he was prepared to like the new Mrs. Mulloney.
"Can't do that to her." Peter swung the pick again, almost falling to his knees as it struck. "Got to strike gold. I promised."
Townsend waited patiently until Peter worked off another burst of fury on the relentless rocks. When his partner finally fell to his knees and couldn't get back up, Townsend pried the pick from his hands and set it aside. "Come on. I'm taking you back to town before we both die out here."
Mulloney was practically a skeleton of himself when Townsend tried to lift him, but Peter still had more than enough strength to shove him backward and grab for the pick. Townsend dodged as Peter swung the pick with all his might and sent it flying into the mountainside.
"Damn a God who feeds thieves and starves innocents!" he screamed at the chilly mountain air as the pick sank into a pocket of dirt and remained there, high above their reach.
Townsend wouldn't
have worded it exactly that way, but he reached stoically to help Peter up again when he fell. It was a long trip down the mountain, and those clouds promised snow.
* * *
Janice lay awake staring at the moonlight trickling through the parted curtains. A cold wind had started some time after sundown, and gusts pushed their way into the house through all the cracks and crevices. For the first time she thought seriously of giving up. Peter should have been back by now. She couldn't risk Betsy through a mountain winter with no one to look after them. She couldn't risk Betsy to Stephen. She needed to go somewhere safe.
The sound of horses came to her as if out of a dream. She wished she would hear them, and so she did—phantom hoofbeats taunting her, making her misery that much worse. She wanted so badly for the sound to be Peter returning that she could actually hear him. She clenched the heavy comforter and willed the sound to go away.
Instead, it came closer. The horses were right outside her door.
Suddenly frightened, she eased out of bed and reached for the shotgun she now kept permanently at her side. She had learned how to shoot long ago, when she'd first come west. But she'd never had enough ammunition to waste in target practice. She didn't know if she could hit anything. But she knew how to try.
Barefoot, she crossed the cold floor, leaving Betsy soundly asleep. Cold drafts blew through her thin night shift, but she felt only pure terror as she heard the "thunk" of boots on the wooden porch. She didn't know who was out there, but they couldn't mean well arriving in the middle of the night. She lifted the shotgun and sighted the front door carefully.
A man's voice uttered a curse. The thud of a heavy weight fell against the door. If she didn't know better, she would think a drunk was trying to break in.
A stranger's voice called through the door. "I saw the smoke. Is anyone in there? Mrs. Mulloney, that you? I need some help with your husband."
For a brief moment panic seized Janice and she froze. She didn't even try to decipher the words or their meaning. She didn't know how long she stood there before she shook herself free of the stupor and peered out the window.
A man as large as her husband stood on the porch attempting to hold up someone whose arm wouldn't stay around his shoulders. The awkward weight of the unconscious man occupied both the stranger's hands, and he couldn't manage the door. Janice had only to take one look at the man in his arms before rushing to open the door for him.
The stranger practically fell through. Righting himself, he started carrying his burden to the bedroom, muttering a soft "Thanks" as he passed by her.
Janice hurried to move Betsy out of the bed. Wrapping her in a small quilt, she lifted the sleeping child to the floor. The stranger dropped his burden on the warm bed and gave a sigh of relief.
"He's a heavy bastard. Excuse me, ma'am." He straightened and pulled awkwardly at his hat. "I'm Sherman Townsend, your husband's partner. He took a fever a while back, but I couldn't get him down here until he passed out."
Janice smoothed her hand over Peter's forehead, finding the heat, hearing the labored breathing. Panic laced her veins, but she could handle it now that she could touch him again. He was here. He was alive. She could handle anything now. She cried softly as she wiped the perspiration from his brow.
"Thank you, Mr. Townsend. I'll build up the fire. Maybe if I can bathe him in a little warm water..."
He headed for the door before she could turn around. "I'll do it, ma'am. I'm near cold as blue blazes anyhow."
Janice was grateful for his departure. She wanted to be alone with her husband. She didn't want anybody to see how her hand shook. She didn't want them to see her cry. She didn't know what was wrong with her. She had Peter back. She ought to be relieved and happy. But she trembled like an aspen as she fumbled at his shirt. He didn't even know she was here.
Townsend brought her a bowl of warm water a little while later. Some of the fire's warmth already seeped into this room. Betsy squirmed on the floor, but she continued sleeping. Janice left her there. She took the bowl gratefully.
"There's stew keeping in the pot on the porch. Warm some up for yourself, Mr. Townsend. I'll be out to make coffee in a minute."
"I can make the coffee. You just look after Peter. I'll go down after the doctor as soon as it gets light."
He was a big man and awkward around her, but Janice scarcely noticed. She could love him for saying all the right things. He would fetch a doctor. Peter needed a doctor. She didn't have the slightest idea what to do for him.
She heard Townsend open the door and look for the pot, but she didn't listen to the rest of the sounds as he puttered around her kitchen. She found her robe and slippers and hastily pulled them on. Peter moaned when she cleansed his face with a warm cloth.
His hands were so cold. She laid one against her cheek to warm it. His fingers moved restlessly, and she had to let him go. She shivered as if she were the one nearly frozen. Her teeth were beginning to rattle.
With great effort she stripped off Peter's filthy, frozen clothing. She had little light to see by, but she could almost feel his ribs beneath her fingers. He had worked himself to skin and bones.
But his upper torso was hard and ridged from his efforts. Janice ran the warm cloth over the bulge of Peter's shoulders and upper arms, reassured by their solidness. There hadn't been enough touching in their short married life. She wanted to touch him all over now. But she limited herself to cleansing him with the warm cloth. He was shivering by the time she finished.
She took a towel and rubbed him briskly, needing to keep busy, to keep from thinking. She found an extra quilt to add to the sheets and comforter already on the bed, tucking them around him. His shivering slowed, but he didn't wake.
She heard Townsend settle down for the night. Still shivering, now as much from cold as fear, Janice climbed between the covers to lay beside her silent husband. He was a stranger to her again, this man who had stayed upon a mountain, killing himself for gold. She didn't know why he had done it, and she had no desire to speculate. She just wanted the return of the man who had climbed in her window like Rapunzel's prince.
She curled beside him and dozed off and on until she heard noises in the front room again. Dressing hastily, Janice slipped out to fix some breakfast for the man who had brought Peter home. Townsend had already started the fire and the coffee. Shy at the sight of her, he headed out to see to the horses while she fixed biscuits and eggs.
She left him to his breakfast and returned to the bedroom to check on Peter and to wake Betsy. Peter tossed restlessly, and she adjusted the bedding to cover him. She didn't know if he had any change of clothing. She would have to wash what he had worn last night.
Betsy exclaimed in delight at having Peter home. Janice just let her think he slept, and once she dressed, she ushered Betsy out of the room. Townsend was cleaning his plate and mug in the sink. He looked up sheepishly, murmured his thanks, asked after Peter, and edged to the door, promising to send a doctor as soon as he found one.
As soon as he found one. Janice didn't like the sound of that, but she smiled and waved farewell as Townsend disappeared down the mountain road. As soon as he found one. How soon would that be? Would he have to go all the way to Gage? She wished everyone wasn't so far away. Daniel couldn't help her now.
Knowing Peter needed nourishing liquids, she set the last piece of venison Martin had brought to boiling. Then she put Betsy to mending and returned to the sickroom.
Peter was still feverish, but he opened his eyes when she talked to him and drank the water she gave him. She didn't think he knew her, though. She showed him the chamber pot by the bed, and discreetly left the room. When she came back, he was asleep again.
"Are we rich yet?" Betsy inquired once, peering around the bedroom door as Janice tried to get some of the broth down Peter's throat.
"I don't think so," Janice answered when Peter only opened his mouth for the spoon. He didn't seem at all aware that they existed.
"Well, as
soon as I start selling my paintings, we will be," Betsy assured her.
Janice had to smile at this example of childish confidence. If only everything could be that easy.
She made Betsy's bed up in the front room beside the fire that night. Their firewood would run out if they kept the fire going too many nights in a row, but both Betsy and Peter needed the extra warmth right now. She would just have to learn to chop trees if Martin didn't come back.
Janice put on her nightdress in the silent bedroom and climbed in beside Peter. His body was like a small furnace, but he alternately shivered and perspired. When he was cold, she cuddled close to him. When he was hot, she bathed him with cool water. She simply didn't know what else to do. She had treated Betsy through all her fevers, this way. She didn't know if it worked for grown men.
When Peter seemed particularly restless, she fed him a little whiskey with the water. Townsend had left the bottle as his only medicinal aid. It seemed to work, and she drifted into a light sleep when Peter did.
Janice woke to the raspy sound of Peter calling her name. Before she could entirely orient herself, he leaned over her, and pawed at her breast. Gasping, she tried to move away, but he threw his leg over her hip and bent to kiss her throat. It was more of a suck than a kiss, and she moaned at the sensation.
"Jenny!" he whispered, as if just discovering her existence. "Jenny," he murmured again as he pulled at her gown until the hem was up to her waist.
Janice nearly leapt from her skin as his hot fingers probed between her thighs. She could tell by the way Peter stirred agitatedly, his voice scarcely coherent as he transferred his mouth to her breast, that he was still fevered. But that didn't keep the blood from flowing hot and heavy through her veins as she felt his body over hers, searching for the relief they both needed.
She didn't know how he had the strength. His skin felt like a human torch. But she was wet and ready for him when the male part of him surged aimlessly against her. She untangled one thigh from his and opened for him, and he found his goal.
Texas Moon TH4 Page 26
