The horses broke through the trees to an open, grassy area and a small adobe building came into view on the far side. Smoke rose from a chimney and a pale light flickered through the one and only hazy window. Claire slid from her horse before the animal completely stopped. Her fancy boots with ridiculously high heels hitched in the dirt and she fell to the ground with a startled gasp. Before Logan could dismount and help her, she was up again, hobbling toward the cabin.
“Tia! Are you here?” Claire pounded on the door. Logan came up behind her as it opened.
A short, robust Indian woman greeted them, a frown etched on her face.
“Tia, thank God,” Claire said quickly, out-of-breath.
The woman inhaled sharply. “Palomita? Is that you? Everyone say you are dead.”
Claire nodded quickly. “I know.”
Clearly shaken, Tia reached a hand to Claire’s cheek. “Oh child, I prayed that Sin-o’-Wap got possession of your soul, that you went to the Happy Hunting Ground. My heart has been broken for you.”
Claire leaned down and hugged the woman. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you sooner,” she whispered. “I was afraid to involve you, that Sandoval or Griffin might see me, that they might hurt you.” She returned her gaze to Tia. “It’s all so confusing and I’m not sure who to trust, but I need you to come with me. It’s urgent, or I wouldn’t have come. Ellie’s bleeding something fierce and I don’t know how to stop it.”
The mention of the name Griffin caught Logan’s attention. The connection seemed farfetched—he’d looked for Dee in the days and weeks after she left him, but the trail had been difficult, ultimately drying up in Denver. By then he’d been fed up with her, with women, and life in general. He backtracked to Nevada, resigned his deputy position in Virginia City, and headed to Texas, finding refuge with his folks and the day-to-day labors of running a cattle ranch.
“Her woman’s bleeding?” Tia asked.
“Like that, but worse. Much, much worse.” Claire’s voice ended on a sob.
“Sí, I come.” Tia poured water on the flame in the small beehive fireplace—steam and a sharp hissing filled the room—then retrieved a large leather bag. As she exited the cabin, she noticed Logan. “And who are you?”
“Logan Ryan, ma’am.” He tipped his hat.
Tia suddenly grinned. Despite the white that streaked the two black braids hanging down the sides of her face, and the crinkling of skin around her eyes, she appeared young, almost giddy. She craned her neck back. “You are so tall. But you watch Palomita’s back?” She nodded and continued before he could answer. “It’s time someone watch over her. It’s time you have come.”
“It’s not like that,” Claire cut in.
Tia smiled. “Maybe not for you.” She held out her stubby fingers to Logan. “You can call me Tia Anita.”
As he clasped her hand, Logan was aware of the Indian woman’s curiosity but it didn’t bother him. He sensed her strong affection for Claire. “Do you have a horse?” he asked.
“Sí, but he is very slow.”
“You can ride with me,” Claire said and urged her toward the two animals waiting behind them.
Tia waved the notion aside. “Reverend is too old to carry the both of us. Look at him, he is tired already. He will mosey to town, and we will be lucky to arrive the day after tomorrow.”
Logan ran a hand down the horse’s snout. Reverend’s grayish hide was long and unkempt but his eyes were a clear deep black. While it was obvious he wasn’t accustomed to constant, vigorous exercise there remained a fire in him nonetheless. Logan nodded in silent approval, sensing the horse’s scrutiny much the way Tia had sized him up moments ago.
Claire surrounded herself with creatures of opinion; perhaps the reserved blonde beauty had convictions as well. Logan was struck by a sudden desire to know her better. While he’d thought of her often since her departure from the SR and had come here with the intention of finding her—although until now he wouldn’t have admitted it—the truth was more of a problem than he needed in his life. Instead of coming face-to-face and finding her less attractive, less intriguing, less interesting—she was only more so.
And possibly a whore to boot.
His knack for picking women was priceless.
“Claire can ride with me,” Logan said and helped Tia onto Reverend. Then he mounted Storm, grabbed Claire’s hand and hauled her up behind him. He snatched the wig from where it rested on the pommel, twisted his torso around and pushed the black mass onto her head.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her hands brushing his as she tried to reposition the disguise.
“You look better as a blonde.” Claire’s look of confusion—the result of a simple compliment—brought a smile to his lips once he faced forward again. She clearly wasn’t schooled in the ways of a saloon girl. Logan felt the first ray of hope that maybe all wasn’t as it appeared.
“Do you know the way?” Tia asked.
“You’d better go first.” He didn’t want to risk getting them lost. No doubt every minute counted where this woman Ellie was concerned.
“Hold on,” he said to Claire. He grasped both of her hands in his and pulled her snug against his back. It was for her safety, he told himself.
And if that wasn’t a load of crap, then he didn’t know what was.
Chapter Two
A shudder snaked down Claire’s spine as the screams filled the small room. Ellie Hicks sobbed and gasped for breath; tears streamed down her face and mixed with the sweat that drenched her body. No pale wallflower, Ellie was a woman in her forties, well-seasoned from years of selling her body to any man who offered. Claire had never seen the stalwart, unemotional woman so broken, her silver-red hair plastered in a tangled mass along her cheeks and neck. And the blood. God, it was everywhere.
Claire closed her eyes for a moment to steady herself. What use was she to Tia if she couldn’t hold herself together? She wanted to be a doctor, of all the crazy dreams, and her reaction to Ellie’s condition dismayed her.
“More blankets,” Tia said.
“The pain,” Ellie moaned as she lay back against the pillow. Even her lips were drained of color. “Am I gonna die?” she wailed.
“Shush,” Tia quieted her. “You will not die this night.”
Claire met Betsy Williams in the hallway. “I need more blankets,” she told the young, brown-haired woman.
“Is she all right?” Betsy asked, her eyes wide with concern.
The girl had been at the White Dove for five months, serving drinks and helping with general upkeep. Eventually Claire’s mama expected all the women to service customers via the second floor, but Claire wondered if Betsy truly had the temperament for it. Perhaps Maggie Waters was getting soft in her old age. Only one other time had Claire’s mama let a girl off the hook, and that had been Claire herself.
On her sixteenth birthday Claire had dreaded the foregone conclusion that she would have to earn her living the old-fashioned way, but her mama had given her a reprieve due to Claire’s skills with healing and medicines. During the past three years, Claire had done her best to help the women at the White Dove, but recently her mama had expressed displeasure that her daughter helped any whore who came to the door.
Claire reached out and squeezed Betsy’s arm. “I hope so. Can you bring the blankets?”
The girl nodded, and returned quickly with the request. “If you need me…”
“I’ll let you know,” Claire replied. “It’s best if you and the other girls keep things running downstairs. We wouldn’t want to alarm any of the customers.” The truth was, with only Louisa Pérez and Alice May providing additional entertainment of late, the customers simply weren’t coming around like they had in the past. Claire could only conclude that with Ellie out of commission and Maggie gone, the men were taking their business elsewhere. Southern Charm was only a short walk down the street and Claire knew the proprietress, Belle Mason, employed at least a dozen girls.
Claire closed
the door and helped Tia clean Ellie, piling the bloody sheets and cloths in the corner. Although the mattress was a loss, they covered it again with a new blanket. Ellie gripped painfully onto Claire’s shoulders while Tia accomplished the job.
Tia ushered Claire to the other side of the room and said quietly, “I think she lose a babe. Her body try to help, but not fast enough.” She leaned down, pulled a rawhide bag from her satchel and handed it to Claire. “Take these cuipa de sabina and make a pot of tea. It will help push the babe out. She bleed too much. No time.”
Claire nodded and left the room. She took the back staircase to the kitchen, relieved to avoid the saloon, despite the sparse number of customers. Louisa, one of the White Dove’s more popular attractions with her exotic Mexican looks and expertise behind closed doors, had lamented over the decrease in clientele more than once. Concern over the financial state of the establishment, as well as her mama’s absence, weighed more and more on Claire as each day passed. The girls told her Maggie had taken Jimmy—Claire’s younger brother—to Cimarron. Since a trip north wasn’t out of the ordinary, Claire had kept a low profile while awaiting their return, wanting to explain in person why she’d stayed away as long as she had. She ignored the twinge of bitterness that her mama was somehow responsible for Sandoval overtaking the stage that day. The memory of how he’d pulled Claire from its interior while Jimmy screamed for her—fighting to save her as only a reckless eight year old dare against a group of armed men—still echoed despairingly in her mind.
As Claire entered the narrow kitchen she caught a glimpse of her hand—a disturbing sight of blood-stained skin and fingernails rimmed in dark outlines. A wave of fear washed through her, and she wondered if becoming a doctor wasn’t in the cards for her. She was certain the men in town who hung out a shingle and treated the population in general didn’t have hands that shook like leaves in a thunderstorm. Blinking back tears, she took a steadying breath.
The stove was already hot; Claire had stoked it earlier when Ellie’s condition had worsened. She scrubbed her hands as best she could with soap and a bristle brush, splashing water onto the wooden countertop around the wash basin. In haste, she grabbed a white cloth hanging from the wall and dried her hands. She retrieved a large teakettle from a shelf and filled it with water from a bucket near the back door. As she struggled to lift the heavy cookware, a very masculine hand came from behind and immediately relieved her arms of the burden. Startled, her gaze locked with Logan’s blue-green eyes. Her heartbeat picked up considerably.
“How’s Ellie?” he asked.
Claire watched as he effortlessly placed the kettle on the cast-iron stove. He opened the hinged door below to check the fire, to which he added several pieces of wood from a stash in the corner.
“Not doing well,” Claire replied, wondering why her voice sounded so different to her, deeper and more cautious than usual. She felt spent, in more ways than one. And Logan’s sudden attention was almost enough to push her beyond the breaking point.
He had found her on the steps of her mama’s saloon, dressed like one of the women who spent much of their time horizontal, or sitting upright if she was to believe Louisa. That thought made her face burn. She had no firsthand knowledge of such things, but Logan’s eyes on her made her realize he thought she did.
While the idea shamed her, it was, surprisingly, equally matched by a fierce desire to explore Logan the way Louisa and the other girls claimed to do with the men who patronized them. The longing was so sharp it staggered her. Claire stepped back and gripped the edge of the one and only table in the room.
What kind of woman did Logan choose for a bed partner?
Tall and broad-shouldered, he all but consumed the enclosed space of the kitchen. She truly had never expected to see him again, a notion that had nagged at the back of her mind many times since she left Texas.
He moved toward her, his hat casting a shadow across his face that was both familiar and unreadable. She well remembered the way his dark brown hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck, how she would find him watching her from time to time during her stay at the SR, how his gaze had made her mind wander to possibilities never before imagined.
He loomed closer, and she leaned back involuntarily as his hand came to her cheek. “You have blood on your face,” he said quietly. Very gently he rubbed a spot near her nose with the pad of his thumb, his hand warm where it touched her.
Unable to find her voice, Claire stared at the dark blue collar of his shirt, the top buttons undone and revealing tan skin and a hint of chest hair that likely went farther down. A prospect she would certainly never know.
Moving his hand away from her, he carefully lifted some of the black hair trailing over her shoulder from the wig that was making her head itch like wildfire. “We need to talk,” he said.
The kettle began to boil, throwing a thick line of steam above the stove. Claire rushed toward it but Logan was two steps ahead of her; he took the towel from her hand and lifted the heavy pot. She found a white porcelain teapot, the ceramic lid clanking loudly as she fumbled with the cookware. Damn my shaking hands.
She deposited a handful of the cedar shavings Tia had given her into a piece of cheesecloth, haphazardly tied it then placed the bundle into the teapot. Standing far enough back so as to avoid accidentally touching Logan, she waited as he poured the water. In an effort to occupy herself she located a battered wooden tray and placed a tin cup and the brewing tea onto it.
“This may take a while,” she said and glanced at him. Why in the world did his presence unnerve her so much?
“I’ll wait.”
Claire was about to say he shouldn’t, that she was certain he had better things to do than linger around for her, but she knew she wasted precious time. Ellie needed the tea.
She nodded, lifted the tray and left the kitchen, sensing Logan’s eyes on her. Although glad to see him, she was thoroughly confused by her reaction.
When she entered Ellie’s room all thoughts of his dark gaze and broad shoulders left her mind as she faced the arduous task of delivering the woman’s stillborn child.
* * *
A slight tap at the door roused Claire from her exhausted slumber in a chair near Ellie’s bed. She immediately checked on the woman; thankfully she still slept. They had bound her abdomen with bandages several hours ago and it appeared to be working—her excessive bleeding had stopped. Tia slumbered on the floor, a faint snore signaling her location at the foot of the bed and near the window. She lay flat on her back, and Claire thought the position looked terribly uncomfortable. Through the white, threadbare curtains a light blue sky signaled the coming of a new day.
Louisa leaned inside. “Ellie, she is better?”
Claire rubbed her stiff neck and wondered at Louisa’s ability to appear lovely and composed so early in the morning, her shrewd pitch-dark eyes gazing from a flawless complexion. The black-haired woman had obviously not been to bed—except for business, Louisa’s regulars were a loyal group—since she still wore the same attire from the previous night, a red silk dress that accented her brown skin and had been sewn by the Mexican woman herself. Claire’s disguise, a tight-fitting black gown she looked forward to shedding, had also been designed and stitched by Louisa.
Claire stood, reminded again of the plunging neckline that emphasized her breasts, the pale skin a sharp contrast to Louisa’s sultry beauty. A part of her, so miniscule she hardly acknowledged it, had enjoyed squeezing into the disguise, had enjoyed the revelation that she was a woman and was built of the same features as any other female. She viewed the human body in terms of healing, or as a means of male satisfaction; never had she considered her own attributes as something beautiful, something desirable. Had Logan appreciated any of what he’d seen?
It shouldn’t matter what Logan thought.
“Yes,” Claire replied.
“I must bother you. All the clients, they leave except one, and he only ask for you.” Louisa pressed her full li
ps together as she shook her head. “I told him you no take customers this night, but he no leave. I offer myself—many times—but he say no. I’m thinking,” she gave a coy smile, “you must give the dress back.”
Tired, Claire’s mind could only focus on two things—Logan was still here, and Louisa was working her charms on him, a thought that made her feel unbelievably jealous. She had never before been envious of Louisa’s curvaceous body or easy sexuality, but one thought of her working Logan over made Claire feel threatened.
She moved past Louisa and paused in the doorway. “You’re certain he’s alone?”
“Sí. But you no go like that. You need wig.”
Claire nodded, not wanting to explain why she didn’t need it. “Send him to Maggie’s room.”
Louisa cast a surprised glance her way. Claire decided not to set her straight.
She could have met him downstairs in the saloon, but her gut told her a private meeting would be better. She wouldn’t have to compete with Louisa for Logan’s attention. And while she could have taken him to the room she occupied behind the White Dove—a separate cabin Maggie had constructed for both Claire and Jimmy—the thought of inviting him into her personal space disquieted her.
Claire walked to the end of the hallway and entered her mama’s room where a layer of dust covered the bureau and nightstands, the bed neatly made with a white lace coverlet. She unpinned her hair and scratched her scalp, wondering what she should say. She could explain everything—her whole damn life, in fact—but she doubted Logan wanted to hear it. Better to say as little as possible. He was sure to be leaving for Texas in no time at all.
With the door ajar she heard his boots on the wooden floor. A flutter of anticipation engulfed her.
The Dove Page 2
