Cherish (5 page)

After assigning several men to burial detail, Race and his foreman, Pete Standish, returned to the cattle herd. Pete drove the wagon while Race rode inside with the girl. Half the time, the going was so rough that it was all Race could do to keep his charge from bouncing off the pallet. At one point, when the going smoothed out for a bit, he tried to get some water down her. Just as he tipped the mouth of the canteen to her lips, one of the wheels hit a hole. He sloshed water all over her, soaking her hair and the front of her dress.

By the time Pete finally drew the oxen to a halt behind the trail-camp chuck wagon, Race was wishing there were a way he might weasel out of caring for her. She couldn’t be left in wet clothes all night or she’d take a chill. That meant someone needed to get her into a dry nightdress. The thought brought Race surging to his feet, and the next second, he was scrambling out the back of the wagon to go find Cookie.

The cantankerous but good-hearted cook didn’t take kindly to Race’s suggestion that he assume responsibility of caring for the girl. “Hah!” he cried. “You gotta be jokin’. No how, no way. I ain’t gettin’ wrangled into doin’ no such thing!”

“Now, Cookie,” Race replied, putting as much sternness into his voice as he could muster, “this ain’t a matter of choice. None of them prune-faced Bible thumpers in Cutter Gulch is gonna come huntin’ for you with a preacher in tow. Plus, I have a herd to get moved. I need to be supervisin’ my men.”

“Well, now, that sounds like quite a wrinkle.” As Cookie spoke, he clanked the ladle on the edge of the pot to rid it of sauce, his green eyes flashing in the flickering amber light of the lantern suspended above him. The lamp hanger, a rusty iron rod with a hooked arm at the top, hadn’t been driven far enough into the sun-baked earth and wobbled a bit with every gust of wind. “A real bad wrinkle, sure enough. But it’s yours to iron, not mine. I’m a cook, not a nurse, and a danged good cook at that!”

A short, stocky little fellow with long, grizzled hair as coarse as fence wire and a matching beard that billowed over his chest, Cookie put Race in mind of a stump that had sprouted new growth at the top. The tattered gray Stetson he constantly wore, even while sleeping, only added to the effect. Foot-long, corkscrew strands of grizzled hair poked out from under the hat brim like gnarly twigs going in all directions. Unfortunately, Cookie could also be as immovable as a stump when the mood struck.

“I realize you’re a fine cook,” Race conceded, “and I know that cookin’ is all you wanna do. But this is—”

“If’n you got ideas about me doin’ somethin’ else, you can find yourself another man to keep your boys’ bellies filled. Put that in your pipe and smoke on it!”

Cookie always threatened to quit his job when the least little thing didn’t go his way. If any of the other men had dared to speak to Race this way, he would have cut him his pay and told him to ride out. But good cooks were hard to find, and Race couldn’t keep men on the payroll without one.

“You’re the senior man, Cookie, and you know more about nursin’ sick folks than all the rest of us put together. The girl’d be better off with you tendin’ her than someone like—well, a young pup like Johnny Graves, for instance. Nobody’ll raise their eyebrows over you takin’ care of her.”

“Johnny?” Cookie’s mouth fell open, his toothless gums gleaming in the lantern light. “You ain’t actually considerin’
him
for the job!”

“Not unless I don’t got a choice. I was just tryin’ to point out that of all of us, you’re the”—Race frantically searched his mind for a tactful way of putting it—“most seasoned.” At the expression that came over Cookie’s face, he rushed to add, “And the most trustworthy.”

“Another words, too old to be needin’ a poke.” Cookie huffed with indignation. “And the rest of you yahoos ain’t?”

“No, that isn’t what I meant at all.”

“Too old to be a threat, then? Let me tell you somethin’, son. I need me a poke now and ag’in, same as the
next man. And I ain’t
trustworthy
. You got no call to be insultin’!”

Race could see he was losing this argument fast. “Come on, Cookie. Sayin’ you’re trustworthy ain’t no insult! I meant it as a high recommend. Think of the girl, why don’t you? Poor thing, seein’ all her folks get killed that way. Don’t you got it in your heart to feel a little bit sorry for her?”

“Of course, I feel sorry. I just ain’t so sorry I plumb lost my mind, that’s all.” Cookie dipped a finger in the chili he was fixing for tomorrow, then popped the sauce-coated appendage into his mouth. The sucking sound he emitted reminded Race of a froth-nosed calf rooting for the teat. Cookie gummed the chili particles and smacked his lips, nodding decisively. “If that ain’t a fine chili, I’ll eat my winter drawers. Same goes if I let you hoodwink me into tendin’ that girl!”

Given the fact that Cookie stitched himself into his longhandles with the first snow and wore the same garments until the following spring, that was saying something. Race bit back a curse and tried again. “You wouldn’t be saddled with her for very long.”

“
Saddled
! Now there’s a word.” Cookie jabbed the spoon at Race’s nose. “Pete says her folks was a bunch of them there fan attics! Them there people that quake.”

“People that what?”

“Quake!” When Cookie became agitated, he had a way of squinting one eye closed and bugging the other one that made Race worry he was about to rupture a vessel. “You know, shiverin’ and shakin’.”

“Quakers, you mean?”

“There you go, Quakers! He said they was all wearin’ black, that they was the thee-and-thou type who talk so peculiar a man can’t figure out what in tarnation they’re sayin’. Call ’em whatever name suits you. Toss folks like that in a gunnysack, give ’em a stir, and you can’t tell one from another. They’re all crazy. That’s how come they’s called fan attics, ’cause they’re drafty atwixt their ears!”

Race had to admit, as a general rule, people like that
did seem a little strange. But by the same token, white folks had felt the same way about his mother, and her only crime had been the color of her skin. “Now, Cookie, there’s nothing wrong with folks bein’ different. Some of them Quaker types is probably right nice people.”

“Holy and high-minded, more like. Them kinda women got so much starch in their drawers, they crackle when they sit! Last year I seen a bunch of ’em in town—in mid-August, mind—and ever’ last one of ’em was wearin’ black gloves, I reckon to keep their hands hid. Kept their heads down, like as if they’d go straight to perdition if they looked me in the eye. If that ain’t crazy, what is?”

That was pretty damned crazy, no two ways around it.

“You take a girl who’s been reared by glove-wearin’ fan attics, and you got yourself a girl who ain’t gonna be happy when she wakes up and finds out some man’s been takin’ care of her private needs,” Cookie predicted. “She’s gonna be a handful, mark my words! And I want no part of it. You decided to bring her along.” He jabbed with the ladle again for emphasis. “So
you
take care of her.”

Race had never been one to fight for a lost cause. No matter what he said, Cookie wasn’t about to change his mind. That was plain.

Dusting his black Stetson on his pant leg, Race returned to the other wagon, a loud
whack
of the hat brim against denim enunciating every thud of his boot heels on the packed dirt.

Crouched on a bent knee beside the girl’s pallet, Race gazed at the black dress he held clenched in his fists. Not a scrap of lace, even at the collar, and the bodice was plain with none of the tucks and pleats currently in fashion. A girl like her probably
did
wear gloves in August. He’d seen her kind. They even tacked skirting around a piano to hide its legs and wouldn’t say the word “breast” while naming chicken parts. And here he was, about to lay hers bare.

No two ways about it, she’d be fit to be tied when she
woke up and would probably hate him until her dying day. Why that bothered him so much, he didn’t know. He was doing the best he could. At least he had thought to gather some clothing for her from the arroyo, and she had garments to wear.

A horrible thought hit him. He wasn’t entertaining silly notions about her, was he? Like, maybe, that this situation would backfire, forcing her to marry him to restore her reputation? Hell, thinking along those lines was worse than silly. Plumb stupid said it better. He didn’t even know her name. And what man in his right mind wanted to be stuck with a woman who’d look down her nose at him for the rest of his born days? Race Spencer, the uneducated, rough-mannered, has-been gunslinger, wasn’t exactly the stuff a beautiful girl’s dreams were made of, particularly not a religious one like her.

Granted, he no longer hired out his gun. But in reality, he was only a half-rung up the ladder from that—a struggling cattle rancher who’d won a worn-out parcel of land from a hapless drunk in a poker game. This girl wouldn’t give him a second look, and if he was entertaining notions to the contrary, he needed to thump his fool head against a rock.

In his younger years, he’d hoped he might marry himself a sweet-natured woman someday—one of those highfalutin types with lace on her drawers, who’d set a fancy supper table, trim all the pillowcases with eyelet, and teach his children how to talk educated and have good manners. In short, he’d wanted his young’uns to be everything he wasn’t and had never had a chance to be.

Oh, yeah, he’d hoped. But hoping was just a fancy handle for wishing. Any fool knew that. And Race had learned a long time ago that wishes rarely came true. That one sure hadn’t, leastwise. He’d never met a proper lady yet who’d let him get close enough to say howdy-do, let alone ask her to marry him. And until two years ago, he wouldn’t have been able to offer her much, even if he had.

A cramp in his bent knee jerked Race from his musings, and he realized he’d been crouched by the girl’s pallet for
God only knew how long, letting his mind wander off every which way. The truth of it was, he dreaded shucking those underclothes off her, and any excuse to put it off was good enough. Meanwhile, she wore nothing but a threadbare gray chemise and ankle-length drawers to shield her from the cool night air.

The lantern, suspended from one of the hickory bows that supported the wagon canvas, emitted a flickering brightness that played over her slender form like liquid gold, highlighting the thrust of her small breasts under the chemise and defining the curve of her waist and hips in shadow. Damn, but she was nice to look at. And wasn’t that just the problem? A homely girl wouldn’t have had his tail tied in such a knot.

Through the insubstantial walls of canvas, Race could hear the rise and fall of male voices and an occasional burst of laughter. The crackling of the fire drifted to him through the night, as did the smell of boiling coffee. Out on the trail like this, the men worked the hours of darkness in short shifts so everyone could get some sleep. From dusk to dawn, weary cowboys gathered at the campfire, their aching hands wound around tin cups of steaming coffee. Right then, Race would have given his last dollar to be out there with them.

Hauling in a deep, bracing breath and exhaling through loosely pursed lips, he settled his gaze on the chemise again. Aside from being an ugly gray, far more modest in cut, and snugger in fit than what he was accustomed to, the coarse muslin undergarment was pretty much like any other he’d come across, stretching to mid-thigh and laced up the front. He rubbed his palms on his pant legs, then leaned over her and began tugging on the cording.

As the muslin parted to expose the beginning swells of her cleavage, his heart started to pound against his ribs like a water-powered triphammer on an anvil. Sweat popped out on his brow.
Son of a bitch
. What in the world was the matter with him? Nothing in Race’s past gave him a basis of comparison to help him answer that question. He only knew he felt as if he were invading sacred territory. Kind of like when he accidentally wandered into
an Indian burial ground, only then he never had to worry about any of the dead people coming suddenly awake.

What was he going to say if she suddenly opened her eyes? Howdy? How did he get himself into fixes like this?

The chemise parted, and her breasts spilled out, plumper and more well-rounded than he expected. She wore the chemise way too tight, undoubtedly to flatten her chest and conceal the curves God had given her. Damned fool girl. As if she could hide the fact that she was female? He wasn’t used to a bosom jumping out at him. It was enough to make a man’s heart stop.

He averted his gaze and groped for a quilt, dragging it up to cover her chest before he proceeded with undressing her.

So far, so good
. He’d just pretend she was a man, keep all of her covered that he possibly could, and think on what he had to do next. He’d get through this. And later, after she woke up, he’d be able to look her in the eye without a trace of guilt, knowing he’d barely even noticed anything he shouldn’t have. Well—almost barely, anyhow.

As he tugged to remove her bloomers, one slender leg slipped out from under the quilt, exposing an expanse of milk-white thigh. Race noticed some scrapes on her skin that needed to be tended as he tucked the cover back around her.

No problem. He’d just bare one part of her at a time to clean her cuts with whiskey, leaving the upper portion of her chest and her nether regions covered. If she had any hurts in those places, they’d just have to heal on their own.

He grabbed the jug of Mon’gehela on the floor beside him, popped the cork, and was in the process of moistening a square of cloth when it occurred to him that he needed a dose worse than she did. He took a hearty gulp. As the warmth spread through him, lending him courage, he bent to lift the quilt and peek under the edge at her belly, which made his own clench like a tight fist. He spied a cut on her midriff and reached under the cover to dab at it with the whiskey-moistened cloth. Once finished,
he took another long pull from the bottle. For purely medicinal purposes, mind. A man needed some fortification in a situation like this.