The Duchess and Desperado (17 page)

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Authors: Laurie Grant

Tags: #Romance, #Historical Romance, #Nineteenth Century, #American West, #Protector

BOOK: The Duchess and Desperado
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He'd better slip away the first chance he got—maybe while they were waiting for the train in Castle Rock—and find himself a whore. Maybe after he'd spent his lust between the legs of a woman who satisfied men for a living he'd be able to be around Sarah without aching for her—at least for a while!
Chapter Seventeen
 
 
T
he biscuits she made the next morning were not, to put it mildly, an outstanding success. Before baking, they had looked oddly gray, but Sarah hoped they'd be better when they had baked. But the finished products had not looked a whole lot more appealing, and Morgan eyed them suspiciously when he came back to the campfire from washing up. He ate one, but after the first bite he put the leftover beans back on to warm up.
The biscuit she bit into tasted like paste and sank to the pit of her stomach like a stone. Her eyes rose to Morgan's, and she saw that he was watching her with some amusement.
“Not very palatable, are they? It's all right, you don't have to spare my feelings,” she commented ruefully. “I
did
warn you I hadn't any experience, you know.”
“Aw, you'll get better, Duchess. It just takes some practice. Maybe corn bread would be easier. Besides, with any luck we'll be traveling by train for a spell after we get to Castle Rock, and we can eat at the railway cafés.”
“That's not much better,” she said, rolling her eyes, “if the ones I've been in on the way to Colorado are anything to judge by. The food was so dreadful that after the first couple of days I had Celia obtain a picnic lunch for us at the hotel every morning when we departed for another city. But the train we took from Kansas City to Denver had a restaurant car, so that wasn't too bad.”
“I don't reckon we'll be finding restaurant cars on the Denver and Rio Grande line. It's mainly just for carryin' miners to and from the fields. I'm just not sure how far south they've got the line built. I'm hopin' to go as far as possible by rail, to spare your mare.”
For once, Sarah didn't protest that Trafalgar had as much endurance as Morgan's stallion. After a couple of days on the trail, even a tenderfoot like herself could see that the rangier pinto was better suited to living off the land than her thoroughbred, though Trafalgar had coped very well so far. But she was well aware of her mount's weariness at the end of each day's ride. How long before the sleek flanks became thin, and her gleaming coat dull?
They reached Castle Rock by noon, and found the train station easily enough, for there was not much to the town beyond the train station itself, a livery, a saloon and a small hotel that looked brand-new. But when they inquired about the next train south, they were told that they'd just missed it by an hour, and there wouldn't be another until tomorrow.
Sarah heard Morgan curse under his breath at the news. “Looks like we're going to have t' keep ridin' a ways, then, after we have a bite to eat at the hotel yonder,” he told her. “We could travel to another station or two down the line before we meet up with the next train. It ain't smart to be stayin' anyplace if we don't have to. Close up, it's obvious you're a woman, Duchess—we'd be easy marks if anyone is trailin' us.”
Looking down at her rough shirt and her trousered legs, Sarah smothered an unladylike snort of disbelief. “
I?
Surely you jest, cowboy! I look just like another disreputable—ah. what do you call them?—drifter, at least as long as my braid stays tucked under my hat.”
His eyes raked over her from head to toe, lingering at her mouth, her breasts, her waist and hips. “No, you don't. Not to any man who really looks.”
The remark should have made her want to slap him for his impertinence, but after a couple of days of feeling dirty, travel worn and quite unfeminine, his words had the bracing effect of a tonic. She felt herself flushing with pleasure.
“And there's your accent, too, Duchess. Anyone who hears you is going to remember speaking to a blond Englishwoman.”
“I won't say a word if I don't have to,” Sarah promised.
She knew it was wise to ride on, but she sighed inwardly at the prospect of more hours in the saddle. For the past two days she'd been sore in places no
lady
should be sore, but she wasn't about to mention it.
“I wish there was some place we could purchase some oats for Trafalgar and the other horses.” She felt guilty at the prospect of eating a civilized meal when her mare had only the sparse buffalo grass to crop.
“The livery'd likely sell us some.”
After a surprisingly good meal of fried chicken and mashed potatoes at the hotel, Sarah felt almost cheerful about the prospect of an afternoon in the saddle.
When they came out to the hitching post where they had left the horses, however, she noticed Trafalgar stood with her off forefoot canted so it did not fully touch the ground, and when Sarah tried pushing her over, she resisted putting her full weight on that foot.
With a sinking feeling, Sarah stooped and picked up the mare's foot, looking for a lodged stone, but didn't find one. Trafalgar snorted nervously, flinching as her mistress ran her hand assessingly over the mare's slender leg. As Sarah had feared, she found increased warmth in the cannon.
Her heart sinking, Sarah untied the mare and led her in a small circle, watching the mare dipping her head every time the near forefoot hit the ground, then raising it again when the off one struck. The sinking feeling was replaced by the cold chill of guilt. Had she been oblivious to Trafalgar favoring the leg those last few miles into town? Ben would have given her such a tongue-lashing, even though he had only been her groom!
“She's lame, Morgan. We can't go on any farther today,” she said, then waited for him to say
I told you so, I told you a highbred beast like that wasn't capable of hard travel.
This was only the third day, and they hadn't even reached the tougher mountain terrain yet.
But Morgan wasn't an I-told-you-so man, it seemed. “Reckon that could happen to any horse,” he said. “I recollect a time when Rio pulled up lame once, after we'd had a hard run from a band of Kiowa. I expect we better get rooms in the hotel for the night, and settle the horses at the livery. We can wrap your mare's leg, and maybe she'll be right as rain in the morning. At least she'll be all right to load onto a stock car of the train. This afternoon we can ride double on Rio out of town a ways, and get in some more target practice for you. They'll be callin' you the ‘Deadeye Duchess' before the end of this trip, sure 'nough.”
Sarah could have kissed him for his easy acceptance of the situation, but knew such an action wouldn't fit with her disguise, so she contented herself with whispering, “Thank you, Morgan.”
“As of now,
boy,”
he said with a wry twist of his lips, “you better call me Jake—Jake Faulkner, if you have to talk at all. You never know who knows Morgan Calhoun as an outlaw.”
“All right—Jake.”
Leaving Rio hitched at the rail, they went to see Sarah's mare and the packhorse safely bestowed at the livery. Then, after giving detailed directions to the liveryman about Trafalgar's care, they returned to the hotel to reserve their rooms.
“Afraid you fellas'll have to bunk together, Faulkner,” the grizzled proprietor informed them cheerfully. “Y‘see, quite a few gents missed their train like you fellas did. But if you was of a mind to play some poker, they're plannin' on a big game at the saloon after supper tonight, 'bout eight.”
Sarah watched as a speculative grin spread over Morgan's face. “Yeah, I'd be interested,” he said. “My bespectacled young friend here, he ain't much for cards, but you can catch up on your sleep, eh?” He elbowed Sarah in the ribs, and she nodded, careful not to speak.
“Sony we couldn't get two rooms, Duchess,” he said when they had climbed the stairs and stood inside the small room. “I imagine you're missin' your privacy.”
She shrugged. “It's no matter. I suppose I'm getting rather used to having you around. But at least there's a bed....” Her voice trailed off and she stared up at Morgan.
“Don't worry. I'll sleep on the floor,” he assured her.
“Oh, Morgan, isn't there a truckle bed under it or something? It doesn't seem right for you to have to sleep on the hard floor....”
“Naw, don't worry about it, Duchess. It can't be any harder than the ground, and I'm used to that. I intend to stay late at that poker game anyway, and I'll probably come back so whiskeyed up I won't know if I'm sleeping on rocks or feathers,” he told her with a grin. “Now, let's get to your shooting lesson, Duchess.”
 
“You're certainly going to a lot of trouble just to go play cards,” Sarah observed as she watched Morgan shaving. He'd already paid for hot bathwater and a hip bath to be brought up to their room, and gallantly allowed her to use it first while he went to check on the horses.
She was dressed again when he came back, and had pretended great interest in the view of the street from their window while he'd undressed and gotten into the tub, and again when he'd climbed out and dried himself. He'd put his denims back on, but this time with a clean shirt.
His eyes met hers in the mirror for a brief second before he looked back at his cheek while his razor scraped over it, but he made no comment about her probing remark. Instead, he said, “I'll probably be late, but I have the key. You stay right here, and don't you open up the door to anyone knocking, you hear?”
Sarah pulled her spectacles off so she could no longer clearly see his face. “You needn't speak to me as if I'm an infant,” she said with a sniff. “I believe I do have
some
common sense.”
“Sorry, Duchess, I didn't mean to,” he said, unruffled. “You get some sleep, now. It's gonna be a long day tomorrow.”
Damn him, she could no longer see his grin, but she could hear it in his voice. “Won't it be a long day for you, too?” she asked. “Perhaps you'd do well to heed your own advice, and not chance losing what little money we have,” she retorted. “But as I've no desire to see you stumbling back in here drunk, I'll retire early.”
“Don't worry, I reckon I can play poker better than anyone at this particular game.” Then he added, his tone carefully neutral, “You know, you're soundin' a mite peevish.”
Shrewish
was more like it, she thought. She wished she hadn't guessed exactly why he was so damnably cheerful. It wasn't just the prospect of an evening spent over cards with a number of cigar-smoking, whiskey-drinking men. He was going to seek out a woman—and she knew just what kind of woman.
She knew that in a saloon, just as in the pubs back home, there were women who made their living at the world's oldest profession. She'd seen them since coming to America, strolling around in the late afternoons in their garish spangled-and-feather-trimmed dresses, or leaning out of the windows of their rooms above the saloons and beckoning to the men that passed. Morgan had bathed and shaved and changed his shirt because he was expecting to spend some time with one of them, damn him. And he expected her to just go to sleep early, and be blissfully unaware when he returned, stinking of some saloon girl's perfume.
Morgan bade her good-night and left. As soon as the sound of his boot heels no longer echoed up the stairs, she got up and paced as she tried to argue herself out of her jealousy.
Be reasonable, Sarah. You know men have needs. Morgan Calhoun has every right to spend his free time with any sort of creature he likes, and you have no right to feel so possessive. After all, you're betrothed to someone else, and Morgan's only agreed to take you to him, not spend every moment until then with you.
Think of Thierry,
she commanded herself,
think of how handsome he is in evening dress. Why, he would quite put Morgan Calhoun in the shade, would he not?
But she groaned aloud when she could conjure up only a fuzzy picture of her French
comte
, and could not for the life of her remember what he looked like when he smiled. She swore when Morgan's face, grinning as he'd praised her this afternoon for her improved shooting performance, replaced her vision of her fiancé.
Muttering an unladylike swearword, Sarah sank onto the lumpy hotel mattress, loosed her braid and, taking her hairbrush from her saddlebag, began to comb out the golden strands, wavy now from being braided in a plait pinned under her hat all day. She imagined Morgan walking into the saloon, and the soiled doves flocking about him, cooing as if he were the only man on earth.
Unless...
The gold dress would be wrinkled, but she imagined she would look at least as good in it as any of the saloon women looked in their gaudy backwater finery. Before she could contemplate any further what she was about to do, she pulled the curtains shut and began to strip off her clothes.
 
Life was good. “Gentlemen, I believe I have the winning hand,” Morgan said, grinning as he laid down four aces with one hand and began to scoop the pile of gold coins and wadded bills toward him with the other—no easy task, considering the buxom woman perched on his lap.
“You 'bout ready to go upstairs with me for a while, sugar?” the woman purred in his ear, her warm, whiskey-laced breath stirring his loins if not his heart. “These men'll let you stay out for a hand or two, won't you, gentlemen?”

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