Apache-Colton Series

by Janis Reams Hudson

  And this time she didn’t even have the luxury of going to bed and curling up with her pain. Their train would reach San Antonio this afternoon. But the pain wouldn’t wait. It was here now.

  By the time she had the rags strapped in place and made it back to her seat, she was pale and shaking, her jaws and fists clenched tight against the onslaught of pain.

  Blake chose that moment to join her. One look at her had him frowning. “You’re white as a sheet. What’s wrong?”

  She leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes. “Nothing.”

  “It’s not your sunburn, is it? I thought that stopped hurting days ago.”

  “It’s nothing. Really.”

  His warm hand closed over her fist. “Your fingers are like ice. Are you ill?”

  “No.” She jerked her hand away. “Just leave me alone.” She groaned then, in spite of herself, as the cramps intensified.

  The date may not have ever been predictable, but the ordeal itself was always the same. Wave after wave of abdominal pain swept over her, leaving her unable to think clearly or to function hardly at all. Each wave lasted sometimes as long as an hour, then eased for a few minutes before building again. Every three or four hours, if the gods of menses were feeling benevolent, she was occasionally granted as much as fifteen minutes free of pain.

  In the meantime, the pain wasn’t the only thing she had to contend with. There was the dizziness; a total lack of strength; periodic, pulsing spots before her eyes. Her skin became extremely sensitive. The simplest brush of cloth against her flesh felt like a thousand pinpricks, and the gentlest touch left bruises. Her hands and feet were icy cold, while the rest of her poured sweat and suffocated. And her ears heard everything. If she laid her head down on a pillow, she could hear her own blood rushing through the vein in her temple.

  Jessie was the only female on the Triple C who had this problem. The first time it had happened, her mother had thought it was a play for sympathy. The second time, the doctor assured her it was. But the first time the pain became so intense that Jessie had lost the contents of her stomach, her mother realized that it was a very real, physical ailment. Since then Jessie had taken laudanum for the pain. Sometimes, it even helped. But this time she didn’t even have that to fall back on. She had no choice but to grit her teeth and suffer through it.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Blake said. “You’re obviously ill. Of course I’m not going to leave you alone. What’s wrong with you?”

  When she didn’t answer, Blake’s worry flared. Her face was pale beneath the remains of her sunburn. Dark circles hung below eyes that were dull with pain. “Where does it hurt?”

  A stupid question, since she had one arm clamped across her stomach. He put his hand beneath her arm and felt her stiffen. “Here?” Beneath his fingers he felt the stiff bones of her corset.

  Through slitted lids, her eyes flashed outrage and pain. She removed his hand from her stomach as though plucking an insect from her dinner plate. “Sometimes,” she said between clenched teeth, “the most intelligent men can be incredibly stupid when it comes to women.”

  Ah. So that was it. Blake had heard of women who had real trouble with their monthly flow. Aunt Lucy, for one. She told him once, when he was young enough not to be embarrassed by such talk, that sometimes it hurt so bad she just wished someone would shoot her to relieve the pain. Jessie had that same pinch-faced look about her now.

  “Well, I might be a little slow to catch on, but it doesn’t take a brick up the side of my head. Got the cramps, huh?”

  Humiliation threatened to choke her. Jessie covered her face with the splayed fingers of one hand. “Go,” she said precisely, “away.”

  Instead of leaving her blessedly alone with her misery, the wretch reached for the row of tiny buttons down the front of her seersucker suit.

  Jessie rushed to push his hands away. “Wha—”

  “The first thing we have to do is get you comfortable. If you felt this bad, why didn’t you just stay in bed?”

  “Why don’t you leap off the top of this train the next time we cross a deep river? Stop that.”

  But it was too late, as he already had her jacket off and was muttering over the buttons down the front of her white cambric corset cover. “Just relax, will you? My intentions are strictly honorable.”

  “Said the spider to the fly.”

  “Glad to know your sense of humor’s still intact, and that you obviously enjoy Miss Howitt’s poetry. You can worry about my intentions later, when you feel better. Damn, why do you women cinch yourselves up so tight in these stupid contraptions?”

  “Because you men expect us to look perfect. Don’t you dare—”

  But again, she was too late, and this time she didn’t have the will to complain. Beneath his fingers, the laces of her corset loosened. The relief was instant. His warm hand stroking her bare arm didn’t hurt any, either.

  “You’re freezing.” He draped her jacket back over her shoulders, then tucked the blanket from her bunk around her. “Here. Lie down.” He eased her down on the seat and tucked a pillow beneath her head. “Do you have anything to take for the pain? Any laudanum?”

  Jessie was loathe to discuss any aspect of her ailment with him, but he had made her less miserable. The pain was easing. It wouldn’t hurt to answer him, would it? She closed her eyes and pretended she was alone. “No,” she admitted. “I didn’t bring any. I was only supposed to be gone overnight.”

  She felt the gentle stroke of his hand along her cheek.

  Embarrassment aside, his care was far more precious to her than that of her mother. The backs of her eyes stung.

  “Rest,” he said softly. “I’ll be right back.”

  He couldn’t have been gone more than a few minutes, but by the time he returned her pain was cresting again. She eyed the pint bottle in his hand dubiously. “What is that?”

  “Bourbon. For the pain. Couldn’t find any laudanum.” He pulled out the cork. “Sorry I don’t have a glass.”

  Lying down while he stood made her feel too vulnerable. She pushed herself up. “I don’t need a glass.”

  “Atta girl.” He thrust the bottle at her. “Just sip on it.”

  Maybe his care of her wasn’t quite so precious after all. “I most certainly will not.”

  “Come on, Jessie, you’re hurting. This is no time to be a prude.”

  It was funny the way outrage could take her mind off her pain. She ground her teeth. Precious, indeed. “Just because I choose not to turn myself into a lush does not make me a prude.”

  “Taking a few sips of whiskey for pain won’t turn you into a damn lush.” He still held the bottle out to her.

  Jessie stuck her nose in the air and turned her head away. “I will not drink that. I appreciate the offer, but if you don’t mind, I would prefer to be alone.”

  Blake pursed his lips and pushed the cork back into the bottle. “Fine. I’ll just leave this here in case you change your mind.”

  “You may take it with you. I assure you, I will not change my mind.”

  But he left the bottle propped carefully on the seat across from her. When the door to her compartment closed behind him, she felt an unreasonable surge of tears. God, she hated this. Getting all weepy because he’d left her alone, just the way she’d asked him to.

  Asked him? More like demanded. And now that she was alone, the pain returned with a vengeance. She slid back down on the seat until she was curled up on her side, huddling beneath the blanket for warmth.

  Jessie had no idea how long she stayed that way, her arms wrapped around her middle, wishing the pain away, trying to relax it away. Demanding it go away. It mocked her by settling deep in her abdomen and radiating clear down to her kneecaps. The strength of it made her tremble where she lay.

  Across in the other seat, the bottle of bourbon sat there, bold as brass. Jessie couldn’t seem to take her eyes off it.

  It rankled that he’d called her a prude. While she did
n’t approve of overindulging in strong drink, she was no stranger to spirits. At home she regularly drank wine with the family at dinner. How dare Blake call her a prude. There was nothing wrong with a person having a drink now and then. Not really. Didn’t her father sip his favorite bourbon of an evening, while her mother enjoyed a glass of sherry?

  But drinking an occasional glass socially for pleasure was different, to her mind, than relying on alcohol to cure one’s ills. Regardless of how effective a painkiller it could be. She should throw the bottle out the window.

  She thought about it, she really did. She stretched across the seat until her fingers clasped the cool glass bottle, then pulled it to her. The action took more energy than she had to spare. Sitting up and opening the window, then tossing the bottle out…well, she simply didn’t have the strength just then.

  Maybe just one sip. Surely one sip wouldn’t hurt, would it?

  Blake will know.

  He didn’t have to. She could always throw the bottle out the window afterward.

  Jessie, you’re a ninny.

  Yes, she was. And a weakling. As the pain surged again, she pulled the cork from the bottle and took a sip. Just a small one. And immediately regretted it. It was like swallowing a particularly foul-tasting torch. While it was lit. She sneezed and coughed and choked until tears ran down her cheeks. But when she regained her breath, she realized she was warmer.

  Well. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad thing after all. If one sip could make her warmer. Maybe a second would start to work on the pain. Afterward, when she was feeling better, she could throw the bottle out the window. Blake need never know.

  She took a second sip. And a third.

  Chapter Eight

  Blake purposely waited until the train slowed at the San Antonio depot before returning to Jessie’s compartment. He knocked on her door, then went in.

  Dressed, or half undressed, as she had been when he’d left her, she was bent over in the seat, using the button hook on her shoes. Or trying to, but she seemed to be doing more fumbling and muttering than actual buttoning.

  When she didn’t so much as look up at him, he said, “We’re here.”

  She looked up then and gave him a lopsided smile before concentrating once more on her shoes. After another couple of fruitless tries, she sat up and frowned at the button hook as she held it before her. “Silly thing. I’s broke. Won’ work.”

  Her words were slurred. Blake glanced around and didn’t see the pint he’d left. “Jessie?”

  “Oh, what the heck.” She tossed the button hook into her open valise, then stood and shook her skirt out. “Whooz gonna notice, anyway?”

  Goddamn. She was drunk as a skunk. “Jessie, where’s the pint of bourbon I left you?”

  With a look of smug superiority, she stuck her nose in the air. “I thew…trew…tew…tossed it out the window, I did.”

  Blake tugged on the brim of his hat. “How much did you drink?”

  Affronted by his question, she retrieved her hat and perched it crookedly on her head. “I only had a teeny tiny little ’ol sip, so you needn’t look at me as though I were a lush. I hardly had any at all.”

  “Uh huh. I, uh, take it you’re feeling better?”

  “I feel fine. I’ll be absolutely perfect a’soon as this silly train stops moving.”

  The train hadn’t moved an inch in the last five minutes, but Blake wasn’t about to point that out. It was all he could do to keep from doubling over with laughter. Miss Prim and Proper Herself was snockered. But good.

  She started past him out the door.

  Blake grabbed her arm and hauled her back into the compartment. “Whoa, there, honey. Don’t you think you ought to put some clothes on?”

  “Oh, hush. It’s too hot for that silly ol’ jacket.”

  “Nevertheless, I think you’ll thank me in the morning if I insist.”

  She draped one slender arm around his neck, then draped herself down his chest. “Hows about if I thank you right now?”

  “Jessie…”

  “Ah, come on, Blakey Wakey, gimme a kiss. You know you want to. You’ve been wanting to for simply days and days.”

  “Jessie, I don’t think—”

  “That’s right.” She slid her other arm around him and pulled his head down to hers. “Don’ think.” And then she kissed him.

  He would pay for this later, he knew, just as she would. He had no business taking advantage of her when she didn’t know what she was doing. But damn it all to hell, she was right. He’d been wanting to kiss her for days. And days.

  And even if he hadn’t wanted it, how the hell was he supposed to resist something so sweet? She tasted of bourbon and honey and an essence that was pure Jessie. She fit into the circle of his arms as though made expressly for that purpose.

  Long before he was ready to give up the taste and feel of her, he broke off the kiss. If he didn’t get her off this damn train in the next few minutes, they were going to end up missing their stop. For that, she would never forgive him.

  He sat her down on the seat and retrieved her button hook. Buttoning her shoes was awkward from in front of them rather than above, as she would normally do it. When he finished, he stood, only to find she had leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes.

  “Oh, no you don’t. Come on, Jessie, wake up.”

  “No.” Her lips formed the cutest little pout.

  Taking a deep breath for strength, Blake grabbed her jacket from the other seat and forced her arms into the sleeves. It was like trying to poke a wet noodle down a gun barrel. When he finally got the garment on her, he had to tackle the row of irritatingly small buttons. With her corset gaping loose in back, the jacket barely fit.

  By the time he got her and her luggage put together, he had to call a porter to carry their bags. Then he had to get her on her feet. No easy task with a woman who refused to cooperate. By the time they made it off the train and to the Menger Hotel, Blake’s hands had touched places he knew she wouldn’t have let him touch had she been sober. He tried his damnedest not to enjoy it.

  He failed.

  The desk clerk at the Menger peered down his rather long nose at them.

  “Renard. I wired ahead for reservations.”

  “Ahem.” The clerk ran a gnarled finger down a sheet of ledger paper. “Yes sir. Two rooms, one for you, and one for the, ah, young lady.”

  “She’s…a little under the weather right now.”

  “Indeed, yes. Miss, ah, Colton, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.” Blake looked down to find Jessie sound asleep against his shoulder. “Jessica Colton.”

  “I’m to tell her that her mother and sister have arrived and are in the corner suite upstairs. Miss Colton’s room adjoins theirs.”

  Blake cringed. Her mother? The woman who backed down a whole town at gunpoint to save two Apache boys? The woman was going to string him up by his balls when she got a whiff of Jessie’s breath.

  The desk clerk spun the register around and held out a pen. “The ladies are out just now. If you’ll sign here, Captain.”

  Her mother and sister were out. Blake’s knees went weak with relief. If he hurried, he could get Jessie tucked into bed, then find Mrs. Colton and tell her—tell her what? That her daughter drank a pint of whiskey and passed out?

  Picturing the kind of Amazon Mrs. Colton must surely be had Blake scrambling in his brain for a better story. One that wouldn’t get him shot. He hadn’t had to face an angry mother since the time Mary Sue Gonzales’s mother caught him kissing Mary Sue behind the outhouse at her uncle’s barn dance. Blake had been fourteen, and damn near hadn’t made it to fifteen. Of course, it had been Mary Sue’s fault. She’d been sixteen at the time, a woman of the world compared to him. But try telling that to a girl’s mother.

  Blake got Jessie upstairs to her room. On the way, she woke and started giggling. Then Blake started laughing, because it seemed Miss Jessica Colton couldn’t giggle without hiccupping. The minute the bell
boy left, Blake sobered. He had to get her in bed, make sure she was asleep, and get the hell out of there before her gun-toting mother caught him. He didn’t know which door to keep an eye on most—the one to the hall, or the one that led, he knew, into the sitting room of the suite occupied by Jessie’s mother.

  “Come on, Jessie, let’s get you comfortable so you can take a nap.”

  She giggled, then hiccupped. “Are you going to take one with me?”

  For the second time that day, Blake reached for the buttons on the front of her jacket. “Honey, if I thought for one minute you knew what you were saying, I’d have you flat on your back so fast…”

  She snuggled up against him and ran a finger around the edge of his ear. “Is that a promise?”

  Blake shuddered. Both at her touch and the pure sultry note in her voice. Not to mention her words. “Come on, honey. Behave yourself.”

  “Behave? Behave, behave, behave.” Jessie twirled out of his arms and jumped onto the bed. Towering over him now, she threw out her arms and turned in a drunken circle. “Behave, behave, behave. That’s all I ever do is behave.”

  “Jessie, help me out here, will you?”

  “Out? You want me out of this?” She finished the buttons on her jacket and draped it over his face. “What I want out of is these shooz. I’d like to drown the ornery rat who invented shooz. Wherz my hook? My kingdom for a button hook.” She took a step across the mattress and fell flat on her rear. She let out a shriek.

  Realizing this was the most help she was going to give him, Blake dug out the button hook from her valise and worked as fast as he could. While he unbuttoned her shoes, she sang.

  “Oh! Susanna, Oh! don’t you cry for me, I’ve come from Ala—no, no, no. Oh! Susanna, Oh! don’t you cry for me. I’ve come from Arizona-by-way-of Florida…sittin’ on my captain’s knee.” She giggled, then hiccupped at the end. “Like my verse? Huh? ’Course I didn’t get to sit on your knee, now, did I, Blakey? It’s not fair, you know. You should have let me sit on your knee. Alllll the way from Forid…Flordd…Fror…St. Augustine. Boy, my tongue’s not workin’ today. Wonder if I can get a new one. Can a person get a new tongue, Blake? Or feet? I need new feet. You tried to tickle my feet before. I remember, you shy…shly…sy…sneaky dog, you. But no, I’d better get a new tongue first.”