Drew (The Cowboys) (7 page)

Instinct caused her to jerk her foot back. She hoped her outward bearing was stiff and proud, but her spirit was in chaos. What had happened to the calm, levelheaded young woman of yesterday? How could such a little thing throw her off balance?

All the things that had happened since Cole arrived had been little. But all of them together were enough to unsettle her completely.

“You don’t have any soap,” she pointed out. “Nor anything to dry them with.”

“I can wash them with my hands,” he said. “Dry them with my bandana.”

Zeke chuckled softly. She’d have something to say to him later. It was downright traitorous for him to enjoy her embarrassment.

She eyed Cole suspiciously. “Do you always have an answer for everything?”

“No, but it’s real helpful when I do.”

“Well you can bend your mind to the problem of finding shoes that fit your requirements. In the meantime, you’d better wash my feet if you’re going to. These boys have to get their work done sometime.”

The several men leaning against the fence watching grinned self-consciously. So much for the wonderful feeling of being accepted into the show’s family. On the whole, she preferred her privacy. And washing her own feet.

“I’m sure you have work to do,” she said to the men, “so go about it.”

They stayed where they were.

“Throw me your gun, Zeke,” she said.

He tossed her a pistol without hesitation. In an almost continuous motion, she fired several shots in rapid succession at the gaping onlookers. Their hats flew off like they’d been caught in a hurricane wind. The men’s startled looks indicated they hadn’t anticipated such a reaction to their stares.

“I don’t like to repeat myself,” she said.

The men scattered to gather up their hats, stared in surprise at the neat holes in the brims, then hurried away, mumbling among themselves.

“Do you always insist upon getting your way?” Cole asked.

“I don’t like being stared at.”

“That’s a strange attitude for a performer.”

She couldn’t—wouldn’t—tell him that she liked having her skills appreciated, but she didn’t like having to show them off in public. It made her feel like a trained bear. She intended to leave the Wild West Show as soon as she got enough money to buy her ranch, but she didn’t have to tell Cole Benton that, either.

“Performers need privacy, too, Mr. Benton. I consider washing my feet a private action.”

“Then I’m surprised you haven’t shot my hat off.”

“You’re not wearing a hat,” she countered. “I’d have to shoot you.”

“Couldn’t you just part my hair?”

The dangblasted man wasn’t the least bit afraid of her. He looked up at her now, his expression bland enough, but laughter danced in his eyes. She was tempted to do exactly what he asked, but he was so close, he’d have powder bums on his forehead. There was no fun in that.

“I considered it. I still might if you don’t behave yourself. But you caused me to step into that horse manure, so you might as well wash my feet.”

“You ordered me to put you down.”

“You didn’t tell me there was manure under my feet.”

“You gave me one second to put you down.”

This was a foolish argument that only made her look childish. “That was my mistake, and I’m paying for it. Now if you mean to wash my feet, get going.”

She should have insisted upon washing her own feet, but for some perverse reason she hadn’t. She didn’t like Cole doing it, but she liked seeing him kneeling at her feet. She wasn’t under the illusion he was
really
kneeling at her feet, but it would do for the time being.

She lowered her feet into the water. It was cold. Not at all like a warm bath at the hotel. Not that she was really conscious of the cold. She couldn’t think of anything as ordinary as hot or cold water with Cole’s hands all over her feet. She had never known her feet had so many nerve endings. There seemed to be millions, and every one was on full alert. No, they’d passed alert and gone into alarm stage.

That irritated Drew. She didn’t want her body reacting that way to the touch of a man, especially Cole Benton. He was too brazen, much too satisfied with himself. He had no sense of when he was wanted and when people would have been much happier if he’d just disappear. He acted as if everybody ought to be glad he was telling them how to make things better. She didn’t need Cole Benton, or any other man, to tell her what to do.

“If you’re going to spend the morning looking at my foot, maybe I’d better wash it myself.”

“It’s a lovely foot.”

“It’s a foot like any other,” she said, aggravated that she wanted to believe there could be something special about her feet. “If feet were all that pretty, people wouldn’t keep them hidden away in shoes.”

“Not all women do. In some societies it’s the custom to go barefoot.”

“They obviously don’t work around horses or cows.”

“When they have to protect their feet, they wear sandals with only tiny straps to keep them on. They even paint their toenails bright colors.”

Drew didn’t know about sandals. She’d never seen any, and wouldn’t trust any shoe to be held in place by a single strap, but she did know about women who painted their toenails. Her brothers had told her only loose women did that. She cocked her pistol and pointed it directly at Cole’s forehead.

“You compare me to one of your fancy women again, and I’ll do more than part your hair.”

Cole’s look of innocence would have done justice to her brother Will’s look when he actually
was
innocent. “I’d never do that. Quite respectable women wear sandals.”

Drew wasn’t sure she believed him. Isabelle never wore anything like that, and she’d been raised rich. Neither did Marina or Buck’s wife. Naturally none of the women in the Wild West Show did. She’d have to ask her aunt when she got to Memphis. Maybe society women were different. But until she found out for certain, she wasn’t going to let Cole Benton put anything over on her.

“You forget about your sandals and get on with washing that foot before I have my next birthday.”

“A girl as young as you must look forward to each birthday.”

If he kept on like this, she
would
part his hair. She might be only nineteen, but that was practically an old maid in Texas. She was certain Cole knew that. He was just saying all the silly things men said to women. It was about time he found out she wasn’t some giddy, scatterbrained female who would swoon and go all foolish when a handsome man started to pay her some attention. She had no use for that kind of man.

She unknotted the handkerchief around her neck, jerked her foot out of his grasp, and started to dry it herself.

“I haven’t finished,” Cole protested.

“Yes, you have.” She moved her other foot about in the pan of water, drew it out, and started to dry it. “If I waited for you to finish, I’d still be here when the show started.”

“There are worse ways to spend the day.”

“I can’t think of any at the moment. Hand me my boots.”

He looked as though he wanted to refuse, but changed his mind. “I’ve been thinking about something else.”

“Anybody ever tell you you think too much?” she snapped.

“No.”

“Well, they should. And while they’re at it, they ought to tell you you talk too much, too.”

“I’ve heard that one.”

Why did he grin like a little boy who knew he was being just the slightest bit naughty and was enjoying it nevertheless? He was a grown man, even if he didn’t act like it. She guessed drifters were like that.

“I’ve still been thinking,” he said.

It was obvious he wasn’t going to hand her her boots if she didn’t let him talk. She could get up and get them herself, but she’d get her feet dirty. She resigned herself to letting him talk. “What have you been thinking?” she asked.

“How are you going to get down from that horse?”

“I’ll sit down and slide off.”

“You might hurt yourself.”

“I’ve been getting on and off horses since I was three. I won’t get hurt.”

“I have a better idea.”

“So do I. You hand me my boots. I’ll put them on and leave you here to think of all the ideas you please.”

She was sure he grinned just to irritate her. “Mine’s better.”

“Save it.”

“It’ll make the show more interesting.”

“The show’s interesting enough already.”

He didn’t say anything, but she could tell he hadn’t accepted her rejection. She could also tell he was going to keep bringing it up until she listened to him.

“Okay, hand me my boots and tell me how you think I ought to dismount.”

He handed her one boot. “You ought to jump.”

“That’s basically what I’m doing.”

“Not slide. Jump.”

“That’s crazy. I could break my leg.” She shoved her foot into one boot and reached for the other.

“Not if I caught you.”

Her hand paused in midair. “You want me to jump into your arms in front of thousands of people?”

“It’s more exciting.”

“Give me my other boot.” She couldn’t talk to him while she was barefoot. She felt at a severe disadvantage. She took the boot, shoved her foot inside, and stood. “I have no doubt you’re right,” she said. “I expect the audience would love to see you manhandle me just about as much as you’d like to do it, but if you try it, I’ll do more than part your hair.” She turned and started across the arena.

“You don’t have a very good sense of theater,” he said.

She stopped and turned. “Maybe not, but I have a good sense of what it takes to keep my self-respect. Jumping into a strange man’s arms isn’t on the list.”

“If we got to know each other better, I wouldn’t be a stranger.”

She turned and continued walking away. That remark was too hackneyed to deserve a response.

“Okay, don’t jump into my arms. Get one of your brothers to help you.”

She didn’t stop walking. “They’re in the next act.”

“They’d have plenty of time to get in place.”

“I don’t need to jump into anybody’s arms. My shooting is exciting enough.”

He didn’t respond, and she smiled to herself, glad to have finally left him with nothing to say. But almost immediately she began to have doubts. Maybe he hadn’t responded because her shooting
wasn’t
exciting enough. Maybe audiences did expect something extra, more movement, more spectacle. Maybe they didn’t realize how much skill it took to hit a target while moving. Most people lived in cities and bought their food in the market. They didn’t have to fight Indians or wild animals. They looked upon shooting as entertainment. They probably thought anybody could do what she did with a little practice.

Why did Cole have to come down out of those stands last night? She’d been perfectly satisfied with her act. Zeke and Hawk were satisfied. Even though the boss kept asking her to do something to make it a little more exciting, he had continued to increase her salary. The audiences enjoyed her show. She always got plenty of applause, especially if a man from the audience challenged her. She always won. The women liked that.

She’d show him. She’d shoot faster tonight. She’d shoot more clay pigeons. She’d nail every target dead center. She’d be so phenomenally accurate they’d be in awe. When she finished, the whole audience would jump up with one great cheer.

Never again would Cole Benton be able to say she was dull.

The show went even better than she’d expected. She could hear the surprised intake of breath when she entered the arena standing on a horse. She heard the hushed silence followed by enthusiastic applause as she drilled every target dead center on her first pass. She made a second pass with the horse going faster, and she drilled them all again. The applause was even greater.

She dropped down on the horse and got jarred rather badly. She waited a moment before sliding to the ground.

She picked up her pistols and proceeded to knock over a series of moving ducks. She’d borrowed that trick from a traveling carnival. It always impressed the audience. It did tonight as well. She finished up with the clay pigeons, shooting one at a time, then two at a time, and finally three.

She never missed

Her act was spectacular, but short. She bowed to the audience, the applause greater than usual. She looked around, pleased, as Earl invited anyone from the audience to challenge her.

“Nobody here is that big a fool,” one man called out.

“They’re scared of being beaten by a woman,” a female voice announced.

“You’re damned right,” came the reply. “Couldn’t face myself in the mirror after a thing like that”

But one man did stand up and start down out of the stands. Drew didn’t recognize him. She’d hoped Cole would stand up first. At least he could shoot.

“Sit down,” someone yelled at the man coming to challenge Drew. “She’ll make you look like a fool.”

As if to underscore the spectator’s remark, Drew called for three more clay pigeons. She shattered all three effortlessly. The man didn’t react, just kept coming. His body looked like Cole’s, he even moved like Cole, but the face was all wrong.