She rolled onto her left side, needing distance from Logan.
“Claire, you could go back to Texas and stay with my folks,” he said from behind her. “Let me find your ma and Jimmy.”
The offer was tempting in her defeated state.
“No.” Her voice cracked and she wiped the wetness from her cheeks.
“Are you always so stubborn?” Logan’s hand rested on her hip.
The flame in her abdomen ignited again, swirling, reaching lower. If Logan would satisfy this need then maybe the fever would lessen and she could rest, maybe she would find the peace she had long sought in her life. Her lips trembled as she struggled to breathe. “Mama always said it would be my downfall.”
His touch burned and her skin tingled, despite the barrier of her clothes. She squeezed her eyes shut in an effort to resist the impulse to beg him.
All her life she had held tight to her internal code of morality, and she’d been strict and unforgiving when it came to herself. She needed to remember those rules now before she did something she might regret.
“Stubborn females tend to survive,” he said. “But don’t be afraid to lean on me.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” she replied in a rush.
“Maybe not, but I’ve been known to be stubborn, too.” He moved closer to her backside and pressed against her shoulder blades. “Stay with me, darlin’,” he said with conviction. “You fight this.”
She wasn’t sure if he spoke of the fever, or her overpowering attraction to him.
“I’ll try,” she whispered.
Chapter Nine
By late afternoon the next day, Claire rode into Las Vegas with Logan at her side. Her fever had broken by mid-morning, so she insisted they push to get back to town. Her fatigue faded as they entered the plaza and several people threw furtive glances at her, too numerous to chalk up to chance. Without a disguise for the first time since she’d returned to the White Dove three weeks ago, she was bound to stir up gossip. The thought made her distinctly uncomfortable.
She caught a glimpse of Maria Chavez and the middle-aged woman stared at her. Señora Chavez strongly objected to all forms of prostitution and never hesitated to make her opinion known. When Claire was ten years old she had attempted to attend one of the fandangos around town—a gathering full of food and dancing and socializing—but Maria Chavez had been so vocal about a local whore’s daughter being present that Claire had quickly left in embarrassment. She wouldn’t even have gone at all if it hadn’t been for Sarah Brightman, a girl near her age who had begged Claire to attend one of the festivals she had heard so much about.
Sarah’s father was an officer at Fort Union and she had befriended Claire one afternoon while in town. It didn’t take long before Colonel Brightman realized Claire’s situation and forbade his daughter to have anything to do with her. Maria Chavez had uttered under her breath one day in passing that she would pray for Claire’s soul at Nuestra Señora de los Dolores, the local Catholic Church at the time, but she was sure it wouldn’t make any difference.
As they brought their horses to the White Dove, Claire dismounted with a grimace, favoring her right side. A sign hung in the window: CLOSED INDEFINITELY.
Logan came to stand beside her. “Problems?”
“Some of the girls defected before I left. I was forced to close.” She tried the door but it was locked. Logan followed her as she went around the building and entered through the kitchen.
“Ellie? Betsy?” Claire’s voice didn’t carry far as they walked into the empty saloon. She took the stairs slowly.
“Take it easy,” he said from behind. “You ought to get some rest. It was a long night.”
His remark about what had passed between them the previous night made her face burn with embarrassment. They hadn’t spoken of it and Claire, unsure how to address her desperate attempt to seduce him while ill, had simply avoided the topic. With her mind and impulses under better control, she considered that Logan hadn’t wanted to bed her after all, and instead tried to let her down easy.
Claire was grateful he had refused her. Wasn’t she?
Betsy appeared in the hallway at the top of the stairs. “Claire, thank goodness. We weren’t sure what happened to you.” The woman’s eyes settled on Logan.
“Betsy, this is Mr. Ryan.” Claire paused to catch her breath. She had changed the dressing on the bullet wound herself that morning, its appearance puffy and swollen, so she knew she needed to take care the next few days until it healed properly. “Logan, this is Betsy Williams.”
“Miss Williams.”
“How’s Ellie?” Claire asked.
“Doing much better, but still in bed. Did you find Maggie?”
Claire shook her head.
Betsy hesitated. “Well, we need supplies.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Logan said. “Just let me know what you need. Claire, I’m gonna tend to the horses.”
Claire dared to look back at him. “Where can I find you? At the Wagner Hotel?”
“Not while you’re here.”
She dare not read more into the statement, not after losing her self-control the previous night.
“You’re not safe here, alone,” he added.
Betsy gasped. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Claire said quickly. “Mr. Ryan is just being overprotective.”
“I’ll stay here.” Logan’s voice was decisive.
Betsy wrung her hands together. “Well, we do have extra rooms.”
“Sounds good,” he said. “I’ll pay for it.”
“I can make your meals for you,” Betsy offered. “And I’ve some skill with sewing. I could mend and launder your clothes. And for additional money I could, well…” The woman looked nervously at Claire. “That’s what we do here.”
Claire stared at Betsy in shock. When had the young woman decided to expand her job duties? And why the hell would she choose to start her new career path with Logan? A sharp possessiveness gripped Claire.
“That’s not necessary,” Logan said. “I seem to have a weakness for women with black hair.”
Surprise crossed Betsy’s face, and Claire cheeks grew hot.
“I’m sure you want to see Ellie,” he said and winked at her, his mouth turning up slightly. “I’ll be out back.”
Claire watched him leave, stunned. With just a look and a half-grin he successfully re-ignited the fire in her belly she’d tried all day to extinguish.
* * *
Logan ate a generous helping of posole—a chili dish flavored with pork and hominy—and followed it with a bread pudding Betsy called sopa, sweetening it with a thick homemade syrup known as melado. Considering they were local dishes, the girl’s cooking skills impressed Logan. Claire sat beside him at the wobbly and nicked saloon table, doing a somewhat adequate job on the meal. He was glad she ate—she needed to keep her strength up as she recovered from the gunshot wound. It worried him she would have another setback.
It also concerned him that he might not be able to resist Claire the next time she decided to ply her innocent and explosive sexuality on him. Not that he expected her to let loose any time soon—he knew her well enough to recognize her behavior during the night was unlike her. It was the reason he’d pushed her away, but it had taken more willpower than he ever thought he possessed.
He’d wanted her.
He still wanted her.
But he wasn’t certain Claire understood what would happen if they gave in to their attraction. He was more experienced—he needed to be the voice of reason.
Claire had cleaned up and now wore a white blouse and colorful skirt that wrapped around her slender hips, making her much too easy on the eyes.
The voice of reason.
A knock on the door startled all of them from their mealtime silence. As Betsy rose and approached the door, Logan moved a hand to the gun strapped to his waist. Claire noticed and concern crossed her face. She stood to join Betsy who had retreated to admit the
ir visitor, One-Eyed Jack.
“Many thanks, Betsy,” he said. He took one look at Claire and with a heartfelt expression embraced her, but frowned when she winced and held her side. “It is good to see you, Palomita. Are you hurt?”
Claire smiled. “It’s nothing. I’m glad to see you, Jack. Would you like something to eat?”
“You know I never turn down food.”
“I’ll get it.” Betsy left for the kitchen.
Claire introduced the old Indian to Logan.
“We’ve met,” Logan said. “Good to see you again.” He stood and shook Jack’s hand.
“Well, I feel a little better, what with the talk around town,” Jack said, sitting in the chair Logan offered.
“What talk is that?” Claire asked, carefully sinking onto her seat.
Betsy returned and placed a bowl of posole, a bowl of sopa, and a large glass of milk before Jack then resumed her spot at the table.
“Talk about you,” he replied. “Everyone knows you’re alive, everyone knows you’re back. I was worried about you, but I feel better knowing Mr. Ryan is here.”
“We all do,” Betsy said with a high degree of enthusiasm. Her face turned crimson when everyone glanced at her.
Logan hoped he could do justice to the blind faith on the girl’s face. The welt above his eye was still swollen from Sandoval’s surprise attack the previous night.
“Hit a door, or somethin’?” Jack asked, indicating Logan’s eye.
“Or somethin’,” Logan replied.
Jack wisely let the matter drop.
“Any word about Maggie?” Claire asked.
Around a mouthful of food, the Indian shook his head. “No, ma’am. Tia and I sure would’ve tried to help if we knew where she was.”
“I know.”
After Jack finished his food, he withdrew a Bible from his coat pocket. He squinted to read as he held the tattered black book in front of his face. “‘Whatever is has already been, and what will be has been before; and God will call the past to account’.”
“You’re almost half-way through that,” Claire said. “You’re making good progress.”
“Yep. Can’t say I always understand it all, but this Christian God certainly is interesting.” He focused on the page, running a finger across the print. “But here’s what I wanted to read to you. ‘God will bring to judgment both the righteous and the wicked, for there will be a time for every activity, a time for every deed.’”
“Ecclesiastics,” Logan said.
Jack stretched his lips into a smile.
“You’ve read the Bible?” Claire asked.
“My ma made both Matt and I read it when we were boys.”
“Your folks had a nice selection of books,” Claire said. “Your ma was kind enough to let me read some of them while I was there.”
So that’s where Claire had disappeared to night after night. Logan had never tried so hard to make it home for supper after working the ranch all day as when Claire had been a guest at the SR. Her presence had been a definite draw. He’d even gone out of his way to clean up more than usual before mealtime.
He was smart enough not to be done in by a pretty face, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t susceptible to the picture she presented—restraint and allure, and a sexiness matched with comfort. Odd as it sounded, he felt very comfortable with her, like they’d known each other far longer than a few months.
Another knock. Logan intercepted Claire before she managed to get to the door. Did the woman have no caution when it came to her safety? Standing in front of her, he ignored the look of annoyance she shot him as he cracked open the door.
“Excuse me,” the Mexican woman on the other side said. “Is Señorita Claire here?”
“It’s sure busy around here, considering you’re closed,” he murmured. The scent of lavender filled his senses and the heat of Claire’s body mixed with his own as she nudged him aside. He couldn’t deny he liked it when she touched him.
“Juanita, what is it?” Claire asked.
“We are so glad you are back. Can you come, por favor? It is Mary Beth, she not so well.”
“Sí. Wait while I get my bag.”
Logan stalled Claire’s movement with a hand on her shoulder; he stepped between her and the stairs. “Where do you think you’re going?” As she came to an abrupt halt, his arm brushed against her breasts and the look on her face told him she was aware his casual touch was anything but casual, but beyond that he couldn’t read her responses or her reactions to him.
“Down the street to Southern Charm. I’ll be fine. I’ve been there many times.”
“But not after being shot.”
“Thank you for your concern, but I think I can manage. Then I’ll come back and rest. I promise.”
“You know I’m going with you, don’t you?”
She studied him, then nodded. “All right.” Her green eyes showed a hint of gratitude and weariness.
“Claire, you don’t have to do this,” he said. “You don’t always have to put yourself on the line for other people.”
“I know,” she said softly.
He released his grip on her shoulder. “And you can’t live like this, always watching your back.”
“This is my life. And believe it or not, I’m used to it.” She headed to the stairs, but not before he saw the resignation in her eyes.
* * *
Claire sat in a side room off the main saloon of Southern Charm, examining her patient. The young woman sat listlessly on a chair. Evening had settled over the town and men crowded the drinking establishments. With regret, Claire knew the White Dove could have absorbed some of the traffic.
The room was filled with most of Southern Charm’s girls despite boisterous calls for them from the outer room. Claire suspected they were curious to see her, but it was equally apparent they were also interested in the man who accompanied her. Although glad Logan had come with her—there was no telling if and when Sandoval might show his face again—she had to admit she didn’t like how the other girls eyed him. Behind this low-key jealousy and her concern for Mary Beth lurked a desire for a long sleep in a decent bed. She might even indulge her pain and take a dose of laudanum; the ceaseless throbbing on her rib cage was draining away her aversion to taking the highly-addictive drug.
Belle Mason, owner of the saloon, stood to one side. Dressed in a deep yellow gown with tassels that rustled along the edges of the black petticoats underneath, Claire thought she appeared terribly overdressed for the likes of this town—they were hardly in Denver after all. The square neckline, outlined by a black border, accentuated her bosom but she was no longer in the bloom of her youth, her gray-streaked brown hair curled and piled atop her head. The girls at the White Dove, as well as her mother, had never dressed so extravagantly. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Louisa and Alice, and wondered if they were happy with their new boss.
Claire felt behind Mary Beth’s ears. There was slight swelling. “Does it hurt to swallow?”
The young woman nodded. The girls got younger and younger, Claire thought in disgust.
“I haven’t felt well for more than three days now,” Mary Beth said.
Claire didn’t say it aloud, but her color didn’t look good and in general she appeared exhausted. Moving her hand to the girl’s forehead, she confirmed that Mary Beth was feverish. “Open your mouth.” Claire peered inside—it was as red as an apple.
Carefully, Claire searched through her satchel and found a bottle of honey mixed with raw garlic. “Take one teaspoonful four times a day,” she said and handed the mixture to the girl. “It will help with the pain and inflammation.” In addition, she retrieved a bag marked Purple Coneflower. “Brew a tea with this and drink one cup every two hours. You should feel better in a day or two, but I’ll come back to check on you tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” The girl smiled. “I appreciate it.”
“You’ll be fine,” Claire said. “Get some rest and drink a lot of
water to help with the fever.” Quietly, she added, “And no customers for a few days.”
Mary Beth acknowledged the last bit with a flash of relief. Two of the other girls helped her out the side door and to the stairs that led to Mary Beth’s room.
“Everyone get back to work,” Belle said, clapping her hands.
The room cleared as Claire repacked her bag.
“Wait,” Belle said. “I have someone else I need you to see.”
“You gonna pay her?” Logan said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you expect Claire to do this for free?”
“She always has.”
“It’s all right, Logan.” Claire stood. “Is the girl too ill to come down here?”
“It’s not a girl. Follow me.”
Claire didn’t need to look at Logan to know he was annoyed. He didn’t understand how things worked, how Claire had developed a relationship with the girls in this part of town. Belle might take advantage of her, but the truth was Claire felt sorry for all of them. Maybe she shouldn’t—some undoubtedly were quite happy about their position and the occupation they practiced—but Claire still saw a void in their spirits and for some inexplicable reason it drew her to them.
Even Maggie hadn’t understood.
Belle led them through the bar area and up a stairwell against the far wall. Logan silently took Claire’s bag and carried it for her, and she took several deep breaths to control the pain from her ribcage. Soon they would be back at the White Dove and she could rest.
At the end of the hallway, Belle softly knocked on the door before she entered. “Rosa, it’s me.”
Claire knew Rosa Brown and nodded to the girl. Not more than twelve or thirteen years old, Claire wondered if her folks, Hyman and Pablita, knew she was here. She’d have to look into that later. The Browns were good people—Hyman had often brought medical books on his supply wagons from Kansas City for Claire to read.
Once in the room, Belle’s countenance changed as she knelt beside the bed and smiled at the young boy lying there. “How’s he doing?”
The Dove Page 10
