Sandra Hill - [Creole] (34 page)

The guard was younger than she’d realized…probably no more than twenty-five, although it was hard to say with his scruffy whiskers and unkempt clothing. He smiled tentatively and picked up a slim, well-worn edition of
The Wild Times of the Texas Kid
. “Mine’s about a rogue who seduces all the women and kills lots of bad guys.”

They exchanged a glance and laughed.

“Do you read a lot? By the way, what’s your name? Mine’s Scarlett.” She chatted companionably, meanwhile letting her shawl slip and pulling out her black feather fan.

“I’m Zeke…Zeke Taylor,” he said with a gulp. His eyes were transfixed by the motion of the fan, which swept in a slow, rhythmic pattern, like a metronome, back and forth, the feathers brushing lightly over the tops of her breasts. “Yeah, I like to read. It gets lonely out here.”

“Oh, I understand loneliness,” Harriet said. She talked and talked to him about books and inconsequential things. The whole time her voice droned in a monotone, the mesmerizing motion of the fan continuing to hold his attention. By the time she said, “You have beautiful eyes, Zeke,” he was already in a trance.

Then Harriet gave Zeke the posthypnotic suggestion. He would scratch his armpits when asked a question and make a blubbering sound…until he heard a cow moo.

Then Harriet turned on Etienne, who was braced up against the bars by now. He stared at her coldly, his judgmental eyes focused on her bruised lips and finger-marked shoulders, but especially the brush-burn over one breast.

She raised her chin defiantly. “You would have done the same for me.”

“Would I?” he said with a sneer.

“Maybe not.” Maybe he really didn’t care for her as much as she cared for him. “Do you want to get out of here or not? Would you rather wallow in there with your self-righteousness?”

“I want out,” he said without hesitation.

She fumbled with the key, then watched as he tied and gagged the guard, a difficult task with his sling.

“Where’s Briggs?” Etienne asked finally, not looking her way as he buckled on the guard’s gun belt.

At first, she didn’t answer.

“Where’s Briggs, Harriet?” Etienne asked again, this time straightening and tilting his head with suspicion.

“Dead.” She stared Etienne in the eye, refusing to cower.

For only a brief second, she thought she saw a flicker of compassion pass over Etienne’s harsh features. His gaze lowered to her hands, which were laced together tightly to still their trembling. Then his eyes came back up to her exposed bosom and the evidence of what she’d done for him.

He deliberately blanked his face. “Let’s go. We have a lot of traveling to do if you’re going to make that train home.”

So I really am going home. Not to Bayou Noir, which I’ve come to regard as home, but back to the future
.

She should have been glad.

She was devastated.

“You know, Etienne,” she remarked sadly as they walked toward the doorway and he made a concerted effort not to so much as brush shoulders with her, “there’s such a thing as cutting off your nose to spite your face.”

“Is this another dumb-men joke?”

“No, it’s not a joke. It’s the story of your life.”

“I didn’t have sex with Briggs, you know,” Harriet told him more than two weeks later. She sat on a window seat in the saloon of a New Orleans—bound steamboat. Her remark came out of the throbbing silence that had enveloped them ever since they’d made their remarkable escape from Briggs’s ranch.

Three men had died in the process. They’d had to hide out in a cave for another ten days while he’d succumbed to the pain and fever resulting from his injuries and the further aggravation caused by riding a horse in the escape.

He refused to ponder how Harriet had cared for him during those rough days…how she’d managed to maneuver his much heavier weight, how she’d kept him clean when he was soiled, how she’d found food. If he didn’t think, he wouldn’t have to face some harsh facts. She’d killed a man. For him.

How the hell was he going to live with that fact the rest of his miserable life? She’d been willing to sacrifice herself in the most intimate, degrading manner to save him. He felt like the dregs of humanity…less than a man.

Harriet would leave him soon. It was what he wanted, of course. It would be best for her to depart from this dangerous time and place. Still, he felt as if a bone-crushing weight pressed against his heart.

“Did you hear what I said, Etienne?” Harriet repeated, glancing at him with a resigned acceptance of his taciturn mood. “I didn’t actually do anything with Briggs.”

“
Actually?
” He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice.

She blushed, and he forced himself not to reach out his good hand and touch her heated cheek. Her hair was swept up into a prim knot atop her head, and she wore a dark blue, high-necked gown she’d purchased in Houston. He knew she was going to extra pains to counteract his memory of her lewd conduct. He knew his behavior made her shrivel with shame. He knew he was being a jackass. But
he couldn’t stop himself. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Harriet and Briggs, naked together.

“What you don’t understand, Harriet,” he said wearily, “is that it doesn’t matter if you consummated your encounter with Briggs. You would have.”

She sighed. “You’re right. I would have.”

“How did you kill Briggs anyhow? Talk him to death?” Almost immediately, he wished he could take the words back.
God, I can’t seem to control my tongue. Why am I doing this to her? Look at that wounded-doe look in her eyes. I’m turning into a monster
.

Her lips trembled as she answered, “No. with a knife.”

A knife? Oh, God, no! Now I’ll have that image to haunt me forever, too
. “Harriet, I’m…I’m sorry for what I said. About Briggs, I mean.”

“You’re sorry, are you? But only for what you said about Briggs, right? Spare me your sympathy and forgive me if I don’t believe you.” Opening her briefcase, Harriet slammed a copy of
Sweet Savage Love
into his lap. “You ought to read this sometime. You’d be surprised at the similarities in our stories.”

He arched a brow in disbelief.

“Really. Even your imprisonment parallels that of Steve Morgan. And he misjudged Ginny’s actions on his behalf, too.”

“Oh? And did it all end happily ever after?” he mocked.

She refused to answer. “Read the book and find out.”

He started to shove the novel back into her hands, then changed his mind, slipping it into his jacket pocket. “You’ll be happier when you’re away from here,” he told her with more civility than he’d shown in days.

“Don’t salve your conscience with those hokey sentiments.” Harriet sliced him one of her old glowers of condescension. “I’m going to write a book about you when I get back, Etienne.”

He shook his head at her. She just never gave up.

“
The Dumbest Man in the World
.”

He couldn’t argue with that.

Harriet was an open wound of suffering, and the man slouching on the window seat of the steamboat beside her twiddling his thumbs was the knife.
Twiddling his thumbs? Talk about body language! Where’s a thumbscrew when a girl needs one?
The brute didn’t have to say a word for the knife to turn and draw new blood. His silence and condemning stares did the job very well, indeed.

Worst of all, Etienne was hurting, too. And Harriet cared more for his anguish than her own.

Harriet was resigned to leaving the past and Etienne. He hadn’t asked her to stay, and she told herself she didn’t want to anyway. But she’d hoped to have healed Etienne before she left. Now he appeared more withdrawn and bitter than ever before. Her “meddling” had increased his problems, not solved them, according to Etienne.

“I’m not going to New Orleans,” Etienne said abruptly.

Harriet jolted to alertness and almost banged her head on the window against which she’d been leaning. It was the first he’d spoken to her in more than an hour. He’d been
sitting next to her, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, reading
Sweet Savage Love
, to the accompaniment of an occasional snicker or raised eyebrow. When he wasn’t twiddling his thumbs, that was.

She glanced sideways and saw him rubbing his left arm in its bandaged splint. A doctor in Galveston had examined him two days before and said the break should heal perfectly, thanks to her efforts. Etienne hadn’t even bothered to thank her.

She homed in on his sudden comment. “What do you mean…you’re not going to New Orleans?”

“We’ll be in Morgan City tomorrow. I’ve decided to get off, and go up by pirogue to Bayou Noir. I want to check on Saralee.”

Harriet nodded, but a wild hammering began in her head and resonated throughout her body.

Tomorrow? He’s going to leave me tomorrow, and I’ll never see him again. Will he kiss me good-bye, or just get off the boat and never look back? Oh, God! I’m shattering to pieces inside. I can’t let him know. I can’t
. “Cain told you in that wire waiting in Galveston that Saralee was fine, that he’d taken her to Blossom after Abel and those government agents rescued them at the warehouse.”
Is that me talking so calmly? Amazing!

“I want to see for myself.”

She could understand that. She felt the same. “Will you stay at Bayou Noir?”

“I doubt it. Now that the gold is lost…” The stubborn goat didn’t need to say any more. That was another thing he no doubt blamed on her meddling. Because of her telegraphed message, Abel had managed to remove the gold-laden caskets from the warehouse and had attempted to take them by flatboat to Bayou Noir. In the midst of a violent storm, the glorified raft had tipped over, and the gold now rested in its eternal burial place—the mudflat of a bottomless bayou stream. It would seem that President Grant
wouldn’t be obliged to give Etienne his money without the goods.

“Your train to…well, your train back to Chicago won’t be leaving New Orleans for another twelve days, Etienne said in a raspy voice. “If you want to come to Bayou Noir first, you can.”

Harriet’s eyes shot wide.

Etienne avoided her gaze as he spoke, and she couldn’t tell what he meant. He’d resumed the blasted twiddling. Was he saying…?

“I think Saralee will be distraught if she doesn’t see you one more time, don’t you?”

Oh, so it was concern for Saralee that prompted his offer. Harriet’s spirits deflated, but not totally. The separation wouldn’t come tomorrow then. She had a few more days to get accustomed to the concept of a life without Etienne.

Etienne put her book back into his jacket pocket and rubbed a hand over his forehead, closing his eyes. He still had bruises, but they were almost healed now. Even his arm didn’t have to be in a sling all the time. With time and rest and Cain’s medical attention, he would soon be as good as new. On the outside, at least.

“Do you have a migraine?” she asked when he continued to massage his brow.

“Harriet, I always have a headache lately.” The implication was that she was the cause.

Harriet winced. She wanted to help, not hurt him. “Etienne, I can alleviate your migraine if only you’d let—”

“Like you did with the guard back at Briggs’s ranch? Put me in a trance?” he snapped. Still no eye contact, just twiddle, twiddle, twiddle.

“Oh, that was so mean of you!” she cried and turned away from him, hiding her tears. Harriet couldn’t be sure if she wept for the pain caused by his insults, or for the horrendous pain looming on the horizon when she left him for good.

Even if he was a randy, mean old billy goat, she was going to miss him terribly. Luckily, she’d have a few more days to prepare herself and perhaps accomplish the goals of this time-travel fiasco.

Okay, God
, Harriet prayed,
I’ve got a reprieve here. How about some help? A little heavenly intervention could go a long way in shaking this jerk’s boat. You sent me here. If you want success, you gotta give me some clues. What’s the plan? Huh?

Just then, the pilothouse whistle blew shrilly. The steam boat vibrated a bit as the captain slowed the engines for passage over a low sandbar. Etienne, off balance because of the sling, rocked forward and almost fell off his seat.

Rocked?
Okay, so it was a steamboat, and not Etienne’s emotional boat. Who was quibbling? Harriet smiled as Etienne straightened himself.

With a flash of insight she remembered a legend that a bell rang every time God performed a miracle. Or was that when an angel got its wings?
Whatever! Bell, whistle, miracle, angel, big difference!
She considered this a divine sign. God was about to perform a miracle.

The goat had better hold on to his boat.

By late that night, Harriet had given up on miracles.

She sat alone in her cabin, crying. What had happened to the old Harriet…the self-confident professional woman who never engaged in bouts of self-pity? The one who tackled any job with gusto? The one who never said never?

She’d fallen in love, that was what. And love had made her weak, exactly as she’d always feared. Just like her mother. Yep, love put a chink in the old armor, for sure. How was a lady knight to go off to battle with a hole in her metal suit?

Harriet smiled at her mental analogy.
Geez, I’m a woman of the nineties. I’m intelligent. Power suits, suits of armor…the same thing! A little chewing gum in the weak links and I should be as good as new
. Harriet sat up straighter
on her narrow bed. That wasn’t a bad idea, really. A battle plan.

The target? Etienne, of course. He’d been sleeping in a separate cabin next to hers, declining even to stay in the same room with her.
The coward!
He was gambling in the upper saloon right now, but it was after midnight. He should return soon.

Weapons?
Harriet had a gun and a knife in her briefcase, but she needed different tools for Etienne. Where was a battering ram when a girl needed one?

Be creative, Harriet. Think like the smart woman you are, not the blind bimbo you’ve been the past few days
.

She laughed suddenly, clicking open her briefcase. In one hand, she held up the silk leopard-print nightie, and in the other, a pair of remarkably intact panty hose. She planned to write a letter of commendation to Christian Dior’s hosiery department when she returned home.

Wiping away her remaining tears, Harriet threw in a quick prayer.
Please, God, help me break through the defenses this hardheaded man has erected around his emotions. He’s a prisoner in his own castle of bitterness and fear. Help me demonstrate that only love can free him, especially love for himself
.

One last thing, God. Please don’t let me fall in the moat
.

Etienne couldn’t avoid his bed any longer. Or the dreams. Gambling didn’t help. Reading that blasted novel didn’t help. Drinking didn’t help. Somehow, some way, Harriet had exorcised her dreaded sexual fantasy dreams. And passed them on to him.

He’d become Steve Morgan aka Etienne Baptiste and he was having a powerful good time every night with his nemesis, Ginny Brandon aka Harriet Ginoza. A very unsatisfying replica of the real thing. Not that he’d tell Harriet. Oh, no! She’d dive right in, psychoanalyzing him. Talk, talk, talk. Force him to think. Make his nonstop headaches even worse.

What had possessed him to suggest she accompany him to Bayou Noir one last time? Why hadn’t he let her part from him tomorrow? A clean break? No loose ends?

He hated her for what she’d done with Briggs, or almost done. Perhaps there was a bit of the harlot in all women, even her…or especially her. But stronger, more frightening emotions fought to overcome that hate. Stupidity, that was what it must be. Only a thoroughly stupid man would willingly jump in the lion’s den, waiting for the cat to strike. And Harriet would tear him to shreds before she left Bayou Noir, he just knew it.

Making his way along the corridor to his cabin, he hesitated before her door. Another dumb notion occurred to him. Maybe he should knock on the lion’s door, walk right in and surrender without a fight.

No
, he decided.
I’m, not that dumb
.

Harriet had drunk a glass of bourbon from the bottle in Etienne’s room to reinforce her courage before she finally heard his key turning in the lock. Taking a deep breath, she stepped back into the corner and waited.

At first, Etienne stumbled around in the dark. The only light came from a small window on the deckside wall where she braced herself woozily. She sensed, rather than saw, him remove his jacket, drop his gun belt onto a built-in cabinet, then sit down on a chair and take off his boots.
Thud! Thud!
With a loud yawn, he stood and padded over to a bedside table, lighting the oil lamp with a sulfur match. Instantly, a yellowish glow filled the room. Yawning again, he slipped his left arm out of its sling and rotated his shoulder socket. The broken arm was still splinted and bandaged from elbow to wrist, but he didn’t need the sling all the time now. He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it from the waistband of his trousers.

He was so damn handsome. Even clothed. Even from the back. Wide shoulders, well-defined muscles in his arms, slim waist and hips, long legs, and, of course, all that won
derful territory in between. Much of his skin, which she expected to see soon, was covered with bruises not yet healed from Briggs and his ruffians.

Then he turned.

“Holy hell!” Etienne exclaimed, seeing Harriet for the first time on the other side of the little chamber. He recoiled in surprise and hit the back of his head against a tall post on the narrow bed. But then, every time he was around Harriet, he sustained one kind of injury or another. As he straightened, he got his first good glimpse of her, and his jaw dropped practically to his kneecaps. “Holy hell!” he said again.

She wore her leopard-print chemise and waist-high, sheer hose, plus she’d added a gun belt slung low on her hips for an extra touch. In one hand she held a pistol and in the other a knife.
Sacrebleu! Guns and a chemise? Is it some kind of sporting house outfit? Like the jockey suit he’d seen a diminutive whore wear one time? But, no, that prostitute had wielded a whip, not a gun
. “What are you doin’ here, Harriet?”

“Laying siege.”

“Huh? On what?”
Really, I must give the woman credit. She always manages to shock me
.

“You.”

Me?
“Me? Trust me, Harriet, this is not a good idea.”
Actually, it’s looking more and more like a good idea, and that’s the problem. I knew I should have left her back in Galveston. Maybe I can slip back to the gambling tables. If I can peel my eyes off her breasts, that is. Lord, does she know that garment is nearly transparent? And surely, surely, she didn’t come out on the deck from her cabin attired in so little
. “Besides, I have a piercing headache,” he added.
Merde! That was such a dumb excuse, even for a dumb man
.

“Maybe your head hurts so much because your halo’s on too tight,” she sniped.

Insults now?
“Are you saying I’m self-righteous?”

“If the shoe fits, Mr. Holier-than-Thou…”

“Very good, Harriet. Ha, ha, ha! Now let me tell you one. Do you know the difference between a dumb woman and a brick?”

She raised her chin haughtily, refusing to answer.

“When you lay a brick, it doesn’t follow you around forever.”

Her nostrils flared on a quick intake of breath.

I am lower’n a pig’s chin on market day. Since when do I get pleasure from hurting women?
“You’re not smiling, Harriet. I thought you appreciated a good joke.”
Now I’m telling dumb-women jokes. I need a drink
. He spied his bottle of bourbon on the other side of the room; it was no longer full.
Wonderful! She’s drunk on top of everything else
. “Maybe you didn’t understand the joke. I don’t want you.”

Etienne couldn’t believe the words that spewed from his mouth, like vomit. He tunneled the fingers of one hand through his hair and gripped his throbbing skull.
Beast, beast, beast, beast…
he berated himself to the agonizing pounding of his headache.

She flinched. “Etienne, don’t,” she said softly. But she didn’t back down.

Etienne had gambled with the best, and he just knew that Harriet was betting all her cards on the hope that he really did want her. She was bluffing, pure and simple, but, damn, he had to admire her nerve. And, damn, he really did want her.

“I’m calling the shots here, buster. I’ll decide on the battle plan, not you.” Her bottom lip trembled as she threw out the brave challenge.

He shook his head in awe. If the South had engaged a few Harriets on its side, the war might have turned out differently. “Battle plan? Siege? Where’s the battering ram, darlin’? Cause I’m not giving in without a fight.” He sliced her a condescending smirk.

“Call me crazy,
darlin
’, but is that a battering ram I see between your legs?”