The Taming of Shaw MacCade

by Judith E. French

  Something squeaked and scurried by in the blackness. She clenched her teeth and kept moving. She'd not be frightened by a rat. She had a gun. She could defend herself. If anyone tried to—

  Rebecca stopped short. Ahead was the cattle boat. A lantern hung on the Samson post, and she could see eyes and horns gleaming in the light. She could smell the cattle as well.

  A few more yards and... Rebecca stared at the empty space where the flatboat was supposed to be docked.

  Nothing.

  The black water lapped against the muddy walkway. With a shock she realized that the boat that was supposed to take her on to Jefferson City—the captain of which had taken her passage money—had gone without her.

  Chapter 14

  Returning to the boardinghouse and waking the landlady at this hour seemed out of the question. Rebecca wasn't even certain she could find the house again in the dark. She curled up in a relatively dry spot on the porch of a general store to wait until daybreak.

  Dawn brought a fine rain that quickly turned the streets to mud. Early passersby stared at Rebecca, who stared back. When the grumpy owner came to unlock the front door, she purchased a rudimentary breakfast of cheese, raisins, beaten biscuits, and a tin cup of cider from a small keg on the counter. She topped off her order with three peppermint sticks.

  The biscuits were so hard that Rebecca wondered if they had been made for the Missouri statehood celebrations before she was born. Rather than risk breaking a tooth, she parted with another fifteen cents for a small container of molasses to soften the bread. Gathering her supplies, she found a secluded spot near a well behind the store, to brush her teeth, eat, and braid her hair. There was no need to worry about washing her face. The shower had turned into a downpour, and every bit of exposed skin was as clean as if she'd scrubbed herself with Grandma's lye soap. Rebecca had a change of clothing but saw no sense in putting that on when it was raining.

  All day, she tried to find a boat that would take her to Saint Louis or to Jefferson City. Her best opportunity seemed to be the only stern-wheeler that docked, one with a craft and crew that had seen better days. But when she tried to buy passage, the surly captain took one look at her and shook his head.

  "We've no room for the likes of you, girlie. Go ply your trade elsewhere."

  "I don't know what you've taken me for," she answered hotly. "But I'm no—"

  "Are you deaf?" he snarled. "Get off the Jennie May or I'll have you thrown off!"

  As she made her way quickly down the gangplank in the drenching rain, a showy couple pushed past her followed by a slave heavily laden with their baggage. The woman's hair was an unnatural shade of orange, and her cheeks bore round scarlet splashes of what could only be face paint. It was obvious to Rebecca that it wasn't her clothing that had offended the captain—although she looked somewhat worse than she had when she'd left home. It was the fact that she was a woman traveling alone and therefore more suspect than a riverboat gambler's doxie.

  Still smarting from the rude rejection, Rebecca decided that she'd have to find some way other than the river to get to Jeff City. For the first time, doubts about the wisdom of her journey crept in to plague her.

  She'd started off from Angel Crossing with two gold eagles, some state bank notes, two Spanish reales, four silver dollars, and a fistful of smaller coins. The amount had seemed more than adequate. Now, she hoped she had enough money to see her safely to Saint Louis and back.

  The pinch-faced proprietor of the boardinghouse had charged a dollar for the flea-ridden bed, and this morning's cold breakfast had cost forty-three cents. Worried, Rebecca nibbled at a broken fingernail. Would it have made more sense to sell the mule rather than boarding him with the farmer? She certainly was no thief, and she would have had to pay back the money. But after Poppa had finished shouting, she knew he'd have understood her decision.

  Just as she was about to turn away from the river and try the road, another freight boat heading east appeared. Quickly, Rebecca ducked back into the store, parted with another sixty cents for more food and a jug of cider, and returned to the dock just as the crew of the Mackinaw was tying up.

  This time, her luck was better. The captain, a short, ruddy-faced German, assured her that he was taking his load all the way to Saint Louis. There was no cabin, no protection from rain or sun, but he had no objections to another passenger. She could have a spot on the craft for two dollars. He stuffed a plug of tobacco into his cheek and held out his hand.

  "Two dollars? That's outrageous," she declared. The crew—she counted seven—and the two other passengers seemed rough-and-tumble sorts. The flat-bottomed boat was heaped with cargo, including a noisy crate of geese and a squealing pig. This was hardly worth two whole dollars.

  "Coming or not?" the captain said. "You don't take it, somebody else will."

  "A dollar now," she bargained. "Another when I reach Saint Louis." The German nodded, and she climbed aboard. Ignoring the lecherous ogling of the two male passengers, she settled onto the deck near the stern.

  Most of the crew piled off onto the dock, but Rebecca sat tight. This might not be a comfortable boat or even a particularly safe one, but eventually the Mackinaw would continue its journey downriver. And each twist and bend of the Big Muddy would take her closer to the answers she'd come so far to find.

  * * *

  After he'd found the mule with the Mennonite farmer, Shaw had hoped that he'd catch up with Becca soon. But the days became a week, and he was becoming more and more anxious with each passing hour. There were too many evils that could befall a young woman alone on the river. She might be robbed or carried off by some scalawag. She could be killed.

  For all his bold talk about finding Laird's killer, he'd found nothing that would lead him to the guilty person or persons. Bruce had been adamant about sighting Campbell's horse in the woods that night, but being in the right place at the wrong time didn't make Becca's father a back-shooter. If he had to point a finger at a Raeburn, it would be Quinn. He'd questioned his brothers about any run-ins they might have had with Becca's uncle. So far, his trail had circled around to come right back where he'd started, a brother murdered four years past and no proof of who did it. Shaw had a hunch that if he solved the mystery of who had fathered Eve's boy, those tracks might lead him to his quarry.

  Right now, finding Bee was the important thing. Just being near her filled an emptiness inside him, and he had no intention of letting her get away. All his old arguments against the two of them finding happiness together meant little compared to facing a future that didn't include Becca.

  Stopping just long enough to ask if anyone had seen her, Shaw drove Chinook hard, pushing the big Appaloosa from dawn until it was too dark to see twenty feet ahead of him. At night, he hobbled the stallion and the mare, rolled up in a blanket, and slept until first light. He ate little and drank nothing more than water. And on the eighth day of hard riding, Shaw got lucky.

  He found Becca outside a drinking house, a stone's throw from the river. She was backed against a corncrib, holding off a crowd of angry men with a pistol puny enough to cup in the palm of his hand.

  A gap-toothed sot the size of a hay wagon spewed out a string of obscenities and lunged toward Becca. "Drop thet barkin' iron," he roared. "You cain't shoot all of us!"

  Shaw's heart lodged in his throat as he spurred his horse forward. He slid his rifle out of the holster and thumbed off a shot at the ground inches in front of the drunk.

  The bully's charge carried him into harm's way, and Shaw's bullet tore through the toe of his filthy brogan. The brute screamed and fell back, clutching his injured foot as the crowd scattered.

  "Becca!" Shaw shouted. "Don't shoot!" He wrapped the reins around his gun hand, leaned down, and snatched her up with his free arm. "Hang on!" She clung to him as he dragged her across the saddle horn.

  Chinook and the mare wheeled and made a break for the road. The mob regrouped and surged forward. A pistol went off behind them. A man wieldin
g a truncheon swung at Shaw. Chinook shied sideways, and their attacker was nearly trampled by the mare.

  Shaw left the road and cut through a small stand of trees. "Are you all right?" he demanded.

  "My valise," she said. "My valise is on the boat."

  "To hell with it!" He settled her upright in front of him. "We're getting out of here before they tar and feather us."

  "But my clothes. I've got nothing—"

  "I'll buy you another dress." He pushed Chinook harder, not slowing until they reached an open meadow and he could see the road ahead on his right. Then he reined in. "Can you ride?" he asked Becca.

  She twisted around and looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. The toy pistol was still clenched tightly in her hand. "Of course I can ride."

  "I only wanted to know if you were hurt."

  She shook her head.

  He whistled to Sasha, and the mare trotted close. "She's got a tender mouth," he said. "But she can run like the wind."

  Rebecca slid down and grasped Sasha's reins. She quickly adjusted the stirrups before unsnapping the lead line and mounting the smaller Appaloosa. "I think we'd better keep going," she suggested. "They were pretty angry. And you did shoot that oarsman."

  "I didn't start the trouble," he reminded her. "What did you do to stir things up?"

  She flashed him a guilty smile. "Nothing much. Just opened a corncrib door."

  He looked dubious. "Not a good enough answer."

  "That was a drinking house."

  "Saw that," he replied.

  "I was on a Mackinaw, and the captain stopped to have a drink. The tavern-keep had a raccoon penned up in the corn-crib. Some other men brought dogs to fight it, and they were placing bets on how long the coon would last."

  Shaw grimaced. "Like bearbaiting. I saw it played out on the coast with rats. A Spaniard bet a string of ponies on his dog and lost. It turns a man's stomach what folks will lay money on." And then his face darkened into a scowl. "You should have known better than to get between men and their sport."

  "And let them torture that poor coon?"

  "It could have been you they sicced the dogs on."

  She shrugged. "I didn't expect to get caught opening the door."

  * * *

  Later, when they'd put ten miles between them and the fight, Shaw halted by the river so the horses could rest and drink. "Don't let Sasha have too much all at once," he cautioned, indicating the mare. "She could founder."

  He kept his eyes on the sky. Dark clouds and rumbles of thunder had threatened them for the last half hour. Now the wind was rising hard enough to whip the horses' manes and tails, and the air had an odd, thick feel to it.

  "You think I don't know better than to overwater a hot horse?" She chuckled. "I vow, Shaw, you're near as bossy as my father." Rebecca dismounted and led Sasha down to the water. "You ought to give me credit for having a little sense. You've known me since I was a sprout."

  Shaw studied Becca's flushed cheeks, wind-blown hair, and sparkling eyes. Suddenly, the fear he'd felt for her safety came rushing back. "You could have been killed back there—or worse," he reminded her.

  She ignored his remark. "Why did you follow me? I told you I didn't want to see you ever again."

  "You lied." He turned his back to her and stroked Chinook's sweat-stained neck. If she was going to tell him that she'd meant it, he didn't want to look into those smoky gray eyes of hers when she said it.

  "I needed to go to Saint Louis. Alone."

  "You shoulda told me. If you wanted to go, I would have taken you. Running off by yourself was a stupid move. You scared your father half to death."

  "And you, Shaw? What about you?"

  "If you're asking me do I care for you, you know the answer already." He backed his stallion away from the water and took a canteen from his saddle. The water in it would be warm, but he'd drawn it from a good spring that morning. The river was half mud, not fit for man—let alone woman—to drink unless they were dying. "Thirsty?" He handed Becca the container.

  Far off, the sky had turned to ash, and he saw the faint flash of lightning. He'd have to find a better place than this to ride out a storm if it blew this way.

  She took one sip and then another. When she passed the water back, their hands brushed. And he felt the same jolt he always did when he touched her. Damn, but she took his breath away. No woman had ever made him feel the way she did. And not one lit up the way she did when she smiled.

  Becca handed him Sasha's reins, knelt by the flow, and splashed handfuls of water over the back of her neck and face. Then she washed her arms. "I'd trade a half-eagle for a soap and a real bath," she said.

  Instantly, an image of her in that bath filled his head. This time when he turned away, it was to keep her from seeing the swelling proof of his thoughts. He swallowed, falling back on a stern rebuke to cover his emotion. "There's worse can happen to a lone woman than getting shot, Bee."

  "If yoo want me to thank you, I will." She rose to her feet. "Look at me, Shaw."

  He did. Water from her hair ran down to soak the front of her shirt, leaving no doubt that she was all woman. His heart beat like a Nez Perce drum. He couldn't peel his gaze off her. If she looked this good in a dusty, torn dress on a riverbank, what would she look like in a fancy gown—or in no dress at all? "Bee... I—" he began.

  "No." She raised her hand, palm up. "I'm grateful, but don't think that because we're together... that I..." Two scarlet dots tinted her high cheekbones, and she drew her lips together in a pout.

  "It don't matter to me if we go on to Saint Louis or back to your folks," he managed. "But wherever we go, we go together. I caught you fair and square, and I'm not letting you out of my sight."

  "And brand me a trollop? No better than what folks say about my sister?"

  "It's different."

  "Different how?"

  "You judge your sister hard, Bee."

  "Do I?" Her eyes filmed over with moisture. "I don't want to. I don't want to sound like Poppa. I thought she was weak... Until you came back, and I saw how easy..." She shook her head. "I won't condemn my sister for loving a man."

  "And what if the rumors about her are true?" He read the hurt in her eyes. "Hell, Bec. A man can't help but hear talk. I swear to you that I had nothin' to do with what happened to your sister. And I think I've known more workin' women than you have. Most are just down on their luck, tryin' to survive."

  "Easy to say, if it's not your sister."

  "Nope. I'd find her and put an end to it. Not for shame's sake or for judgin' her, but because most whores live short, hard lives."

  "You sound like an expert."

  He grimaced. "I've paid women. It's not something I'm proud of. But drink and loneliness will drive a man to do a lot of things he regrets later." He swallowed. "I've lain with them, Bee, but I've not condemned them for it afterward."

  "So if we... once you have what you want from me—"

  He moved too quickly for her to duck away on the narrow path. His hand closed around her wrist, and he yanked her against him and kissed her hard. Her struggle lasted no more than a dozen heartbeats. Then Becca's head fell back, and her arms went around his neck, and she was giving as good as she got.

  His discomfort was real and aching. He wanted her here and now. He wanted to shove her back on the dirt and taste every inch of her. He wanted to touch her soft white skin where the sun never darkened it. He didn't care if the threatening thunderstorm boiled overhead. He needed her like he'd never needed another human, and he knew if he took what was his for having, he'd lose her forever.

  "Damn it, Bee." He groaned at the feel of her and the woman scent that filled his head and made him half-mad with desire. "You either love me or you don't."

  She was shaking now, her heavy-lashed eyes filling with moisture. "I do love you."

  Another flash of lightning. This one was closer, but the clouds behind it boiled purple-gray. Reason told him to pay attention to the weather, but he never
could resist a woman's tears.

  "Sweetheart, don't. Don't cry. I won't hurt you. You know I'd never hurt you."

  She buried her face in his shirt. "I don't know." She wept. "That's the problem. I don't know you, Shaw."

  "I offered to take you away."

  "And leave your family... and mine?"

  "Hell, yes. Let them kill each other. I'd make you happy, Becca. I swear I would."

  She put her hand over his mouth. "Don't swear. Please."

  Desire knifed through him in jagged intensity. "Let's find some better shelter." They couldn't be together here. It was too open. Anyone passing on the river would see them.

  "That farm... not far back," he continued. The house had burned down, but there was a barn that looked solid. "If we stay here, we're going to get wet."

  "I've been wet," she answered.

  He burned to have her, but he guessed she'd never been with a man. He wanted this time to be special for her. And that wouldn't be here on this muddy deer track. "Let's ride back and camp in that barn."

  "You want me to spend the night in a hayloft with you?"

  Her lips were bruised and swollen from his kisses, and he brushed them tenderly. "Tell me you don't want me as much as I want you," he rasped.

  She pushed away and stood there swaying slightly. "Lend me your mare, Shaw," she begged him. "Or put me on a stagecoach. Let me go. Now. Before it's too late! I can't be with you without marriage. I won't. And I can't forgive you if you betrayed me with my sister and lied about it."

  "I told you I was telling the truth about Eve." It took every ounce of his control to keep from ripping open her shirt and spilling her creamy white breasts into his aching hands. He wanted to kiss her nipples, and suck them until she moaned with pleasure. He wanted to part her long legs and bury himself between them.

  Just thinking about making love to her gave him an erection. His hard, swollen cock pulsed with the need to have her. "Are you afraid of what people will say about you?" he asked breathlessly.

  "No." She backed away. "I'm afraid of what I'll think of myself."