Lady Lavender (8 page)

W
ash took his time riding out to MacAllister's, trying to sort out his feelings about Jeanne Nicolet. She was annoying as hell and prickly as a cactus. But he liked her. In addition she was so good to look at he hadn't stopped wanting her since he'd laid eyes on her.

He gazed up at the beginning of a colorful sunset. The shorn barley fields glowed with a rich, golden light and purple-tinged clouds hung over the mountains in the distance. He'd always thought this part of the country was beautiful. Hadn't realized how much he'd missed it in the years he'd been away.

He let General pick his way slowly toward the bunk house where a spiral of smoke curled from the stovepipe on the roof. The empty wagon sat next to the structure and…dammit, there was another clothesline draped with lacy undergarments flapping in the breeze. Wash
groaned aloud. This woman would try a man's patience until it snapped.

Before he could dismount the door swung open and Manette sprang out, dressed in a crisp white pinafore. She tipped her face up, watching him slip out of the saddle. He bent his knees and hunched down to her level, ignoring the stab of pain in his wounded hip.

“I wanna look for grasshoppers, but
Maman
says I can't cuz we're going to a dance.”

“You ever been to a dance before?”

“No. And I don't want to.”

Wash had to laugh. At what point in a young girl's life did she get interested in dances?

“I see,” he said. “You'd rather hunt for grass—”

Jeanne appeared in the doorway and he broke off. She wore a yellow dress made of some kind of soft-looking stuff. She'd let her hair down and it brushed her shoulders in dark waves. He'd like to run his fingers through it. In the gauzy almost-evening light she looked like an angel. Over her arm she carried a basket of lavender sachets.

“Bon soir,”
she called.

Very slowly he rose to his feet and snaked off his wide-brimmed hat, his mouth suddenly dry as tumble-weed. He had to clear his throat twice before he could utter a word.

“Manette says you're going—”

“
Oui,
to the dance at Peter and Roberta Jensen's barn. They were very kind to invite me.”

“How're you going to get there, walk?”

“But of course! It is only one half of a mile. Ten minutes!”

His mouth opened and before he could close it, words he hadn't expected came tumbling out. “I could drive you in the wagon.”

What was he saying?
He didn't want to go anywhere near that barn dance. He especially did not want to be anywhere near Jeanne in that yellow dress. Every time he looked at her, his britches felt too tight.

She gazed at him, considering his impulsive offer, probably weighing all the reasons she would prefer to walk. Apparently she didn't want his help. Well, let her walk if she was so independent. He hoped she'd get cockleburs in her stockings.

He looked skyward where the moon floated above them like a fat orange pumpkin sailing close to the earth. He guessed she was still mad enough about the railroad to spit nails. She wouldn't want to be within a mile of him, much less sitting next to him on the wagon bench.

“Bon,”
she said abruptly. She gestured toward the slat-wood vehicle pulled up next to the bunkhouse. “Would you hitch up my horse?”

Wash stood motionless, wondering if he'd heard right. Hitch up…? Yeah, he'd heard right.

His hands shook when he nudged the bridle over her gray mare's head. By the time he'd linked the traces to the wagon axle, he was so nervous the horse sidled away from him.

What the devil was wrong with him? He'd be sitting next to Jeanne for maybe five minutes while he drove
the wagon to the Jensen place. Five minutes, that was all. And he would position Manette between them.

He lifted the girl up onto the wagon bench, then offered a helping hand to Jeanne. She ignored it, stepped up on the axle and settled herself into place beside her daughter. Wash tramped around to the other side, climbed up and flapped the lines. The mare started forward.

Jeanne smoothed out her soft yellow dress and sat in rigid silence while Manette clapped her hands and began to hum a tuneless song. Jeanne leaned sideways to put her arm around her daughter and he caught a whiff of that indefinable scent that rose from her hair. Like lilac blooms, with a dash of…cloves? Whatever it was, it made him ache with an old, old hunger he thought he'd never feel again.

The Jensens' barn, actually their threshing barn, was lit up like a Kansas City carnival. Candlelit lanterns lined the path; music poured out the double doors which stood wide open as townsfolk crowded to get inside.

The interior was warm, smelling of pine planks and coffee and tobacco smoke and ladies' scented powder. At one end of the room a long table was laden with cakes and pies, glass bowls of lemonade punch, two speckleware coffeepots, and even a few bottles of whiskey for the men. Jeanne set her basket of sachets next to the lemonade.

In the opposite corner Thad MacAllister and Whitey Kincaid sawed away on their fiddles, and Seth Rubens jauntily plucked a washtub bass. Upturned wooden boxes served as chairs along one wall, and an area behind the
refreshment table had been set aside for makeshift beds for young children and a few cradles for infants.

Wash felt suddenly out of place in the overwarm, noisy atmosphere. For some reason the friendly spirit of the gathering grated on his nerves. He knew almost everyone. Some folks he'd known since he was in knee pants on his dad's ranch, but he still felt he didn't belong.

Jeanne was whirled away into a square dance set and Rooney strode across the polished floor and bowed before Manette. “Now, then, Little Miss, I'm gonna teach you how to dance.”

Wash found himself standing against the far wall, trying not to watch Jeanne lifting her arm to make a Ladies' Star in the center of her square. She was clearly working hard to mend some bridges with the townsfolk. Instead he concentrated on Rooney and Manette. The girl placed her feet on top of Rooney's big boots, so that when he stepped, she stepped. Together they moved about the floor in a dance of sorts, Manette grinning up at Rooney, her eyes shining. Rooney, the big galoot, was one big smile.

Wash blew out a pent-up breath. He was surrounded by a bustling crowd of people yet he felt lonelier than he could ever remember. He edged toward the whiskey on the refreshment table. He downed one hefty slug, and then another, and began to feel more alive.

The music changed to a polka. He searched the dancing couples for Jeanne, found her with Carl Ness, the mercantile owner. Looked like Carl had warmed toward her; he was teaching her the steps. She looked distracted
and kept stumbling over her partner's feet. He guessed they didn't polka in New Orleans.

A tall young cowboy cut in on Carl, and then another fellow with a handsome blond mustache cut in on the cowboy. The mustache held her too close, and Wash clenched his jaw.
Don't manhandle her, you big oaf. This one is a Lady with a capital
L.

He watched as long as he could stand it, then shouldered his way onto the waxed floor. When her partner swung her close enough, Wash reached out, snagged his arm around her waist, and spun her out of Mustache's arms and into his own.

“Merci!”
she whispered. “I thought he was going to eat me!”

“I thought so, too.”

She said nothing, and their conversation died. Wash tried to concentrate on moving his feet. The fiddles moved into a slow waltz, which made it easier in one way—he knew the steps—but harder in another: he was holding her in his arms. Her hair smelled of flowers and under the billowy yellow dress she was warm and soft. He held her slightly apart from him, afraid he would crush her.

Which was exactly what he wanted to do. After a slight hesitation he pulled her closer, so close her tumbled hair brushed his bare hand splayed against her back.

“What do you think about when you are dancing?” she murmured.

“About the railroad, I guess.”
No, you don't. You think about Jeanne.

She swallowed. “I never stop thinking about it. It has changed everything. I feel…lost. Everything I have worked so hard for is gone. It makes me feel—how you say?—helpless. Marooned, like a ship with no place to go.”

Wash nodded, grazing her forehead with his chin. “Partly I'm sorry about it. But partly I'm glad, too.”

“Are you glad for this? For the dancing?”

“Some,” he answered honestly.

“It is not comfortable for you, then? Why is that?”

At that moment he forgot everything except the feel of her pliant body in his arms. He forgot why he was here in Jensens' barn. He forgot to move his feet.

She tipped her head back to look at him. “Why?” she repeated.

He stopped dancing. She didn't seem to notice, but stood still, closed in the circle of his arms. “Because,” he said at last, “I can't be near you and not want you.”

His words hung in the air between them, as if a bell were summoning them. For a long time neither of them moved, but then she dropped her head to rest her cheek against his shoulder. When she reached her hand up and curved her fingers across the back of his neck, Wash gritted his teeth. He was finding it hard to breathe. Hard to think. He wanted to hold her close enough to feel her breasts against his chest. Oh, he wanted to taste her nipples.

He wanted to— Oh, hell. Her hand was clasped in his in proper waltz position; he drew it to his breastbone and folded his fingers over hers.

What in hell was wrong with him? He began to move
slower, and he forgot to think about the steps. They moved at the periphery of the other dancing couples, past the refreshment table, past the musicians in the corner.

Jeanne closed her eyes. She drew in an uneven breath and let herself drift between the sob of the violin and the thrum of his heartbeat. She liked his smell, of leather and sweat and…ah, it did not matter what else; it was just good. All of him was good.
Très beau.

She needed some lemonade.

Non,
she needed some whiskey.

Mon Dieu,
she needed…him.

The music stopped, but they kept moving together, their bodies almost touching. His mouth grazed her forehead; the yellow ruffles on her bodice brushed against his shirtfront.

The violin struck up a reel. Jeanne heard the faster tempo but she did not want to stop their slow journey together. It was almost like making love, his body asking, hers answering. At the thought she sucked in a gulp of air and felt tears sting into her eyes. It was such pleasure being close to him! It made her nerves sing in a way they had not since she was a girl in France.

Mon Dieu!
Was she falling in—?

A rough hand grasped her forearm and yanked her out of Wash's arms. She stumbled, then found herself dragged against another man's body. “Aye,
señora,
” a silky voice said. “Now I will have that kiss, no?”

The Spaniard! The one Wash had chased away that
night. She opened her mouth to shout, but another voice, low and menacing, interrupted.

“Take your hands off her, Montez.”

For a second nothing happened. The Spaniard tightened his hold, and then Wash slipped one arm about her waist and simultaneously rammed his other elbow into the man's windpipe.

The man doubled over, gasping for air.

Wash propelled her to the sidelines. “Let's get out of here.”

He spun at a woman's cry from across the room. Montez had halfway straightened and now he was pulling a knife from inside his boot. Wash thrust Jeanne behind him and stepped forward. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Rooney lift Manette onto a chair protected behind the refreshment table. Rooney could smell a fight a mile away.

Jeanne gave a stifled cry. Damn, he didn't want her mixed up in this; he'd have to keep himself between her and Montez until she could leave the barn.

Montez crouched, the blade in his right hand sweeping in an arc as he advanced. The man's steps were slow and deliberate, his eyes glittering, his breathing raspy. Wash had had plenty of practice during the Sioux skirmishes, but at least he'd had a knife of his own. Now, he had nothing.
It wouldn't be fun, but he'd done it before.

He lifted both arms and began circling to the left, drawing Montez's attention away from Jeanne. If he could get in close enough, under the Spaniard's blade…

He crouched and kept moving to the left, drawing closer bit by bit. He couldn't take his eyes off the shiny knife Montez brandished—some kind of silvery blade with a carved black handle. The Spaniard would have to raise his arm to stab downward at Wash. Or he could strike up from waist level and catch him in the rib cage.

He moved in. “Come on, Montez. Come and get me.”

The Spaniard's lips drew back in a feral grin. “I will kill you, Boss Man.”

“I don't think so.” Wash feinted with his left hand, and when Montez followed with his knife, Wash lunged inside the blade's arc, close enough to the man's body to hamper his thrust. Before Montez could rip the blade into Wash's side, Wash shot his right fist into the man's shoulder and with his left arm knocked Montez's elbow up.

Montez yelped, and the knife clattered onto the barn floor.

Wash dived for it, but the sheriff stomped out of nowhere and pinned it under his boot. Then he lifted his coat back to reveal his holstered sidearm.

“Come along, Montez. Got a nice cool jail cell waitin' for ya.”

Wash was breathing hard, but inside his gut the knot of anger and fear was dissolving in a rush of masculine triumph. He watched the sheriff march the Spaniard out the side door. Outside, he found Jeanne leaning against the side of the barn, her eyes huge, her fingers clasped
over her mouth. Rooney appeared with Manette clinging to his hand.