The Lady Takes A Gunslinger (Wild Western Rogues Series, Book 1) (23 page)

Chapter 12

Nothing about the cramped cabin aboard the
Lizzie
recommended it for sleep, Grace mused, despite St. John's insistence that they do so after hours of touch and go movement on the sandbar-ridden river. By some miracle, they were safe at last, beyond the reach of Sanders and his men. But relief had not been nearly as overwhelming as their cumulative need for rest. Donovan had fallen into a deep slumber almost as soon as his head had hit the granitelike sack of grain that doubled as a pillow. Likewise, Brew reclined, snoring, in the captain's chair beside the small potbellied stove, his boots propped on a keg of nails.

She had slept soundly for a few hours. However, she'd spent the last two hours wide awake, alternately writing and staring at the curling edges of yellowed newspaper lining the walls, wondering if the thick cobwebs crowding the corners were the only glue still holding it in place. In the flickering light of the turned-down lamp, her imagination had supplied ample quantities of hairy spiders crawling across the newsprint, though in reality, she'd seen none.

However, the small furry creature that had scurried across the space between the narrow cot she and Donovan shared and Brew's chair was definitely not her imagination.

It had squeaked.

Twice.

Now and then, she could hear its tiny little feet scuttling across the cluttered floor. Ever since, she'd sat listening to the rush of the river's current against the
Lizzie's
bow, clutching the broken handle of a broom in one hand and her pen in the other, waiting for that horrid little creature to reappear. If it did, she was ready.

Grace refreshed her pen in the India ink bottle on the bed beside her, poised it over her notebook, and continued to write:

The task of protection had fallen to Lorna Lee. The double-barreled shotgun grew heavy in her hands as she waited for the beast's return. It had prowled the outskirts of their fire for hours making horrible sounds. Now, it lurked nearby, waiting for its chance.

On the far side of the fire, Dead-Eye Donovan slept, oblivious to the fact that they'd simply traded one treachery for another. His brush with death had left him exhausted, and he'd dropped his guard.

She studied the way the firelight played across his cheekbones, disappearing in the curve of his strong jawline, the way it burnished his dark eyelashes with gold and softened the stubborn line of his mouth. That he was a strong man, she had no doubts. He had proven that beyond question. Whether she could trust him was another matter altogether.

Still, as the beast howled in the darkness beyond, Lorna Lee found herself sorely tempted to wake him. She stopped short. Danger had never cowed her. This time, she vowed, would be no different. She had something to prove to the arrogant gunslinger who'd dragged her into his heated embrace as if he'd owned her, and tonight, she meant to—

A slithery pink tail fell across the page.

"Aaaaaa-ahhk!"

Journal, pen, and inkwell launched into the air, followed closely by a ball of gray fur standing on end. Four tiny legs splayed sideways at ninety-degree angles to the hurtling form.

"Wha—!" Reese exploded from the far end of the bed, just in time to catch the blind thrash of Grace's broom handle hard across his forearm. It landed with a dull
thwack!

As pain ricocheted up his arm, he dove for the weapon, wrestling Grace against the wall, pinning her arms on either side of her head.

At the same moment, Brewster lurched from his chair and staggered groggily sideways. "What in the devil—?"

"Aaaaa-aak!"
she shrieked again. "Get it off meee!"

"Ow!" Donovan shouted at Grace as her foot connected with his unguarded shin bone. "What the devil's the matter with you?"

Brew grabbed a fistful of his shirt. "Donovan, I warned you about touchin' her—"

"Oh, for crying out loud! She's hysterical!"

"I kin see tha—"

Grace rocked her head against the wall, her eyes squeezed shut. "R-ra-raaat!"

Reese stared at her, ink dripping off his shoulder. "What?"

"Rat! There was a... rat on the bed!" A graphic shudder of disgust spoke volumes about her experience.

Brewster let go of Reese and dragged a hand across the fresh stubble on his chin. "Ah, well, a rat. She never could abide rats and that's a fact. It's a fobee."

Reese looked up at him. "A fobee?"

"Y' know. When somethin' scares the bejeebers outta somebody." Brew winked conspiratorially.

"Yeah." Letting loose of her arms, Reese scanned the destroyed bedclothes. "No rat. See? Look for yourself. It's gone." And if it valued its life, it had jumped ship by now.

She looked hesitatingly, then, seeing nothing, shut her eyes. "Ohhh, thank God. I think I hit it."

"No." Donovan sighed, rubbing the darkening bruise on his arm. "The rat you missed."

She gasped in horror, seeing the truth. "I hit you? Oh, Reese, I'm so sorry." She pulled his arm toward her for a closer inspection. "Oh, look what I did." She sucked in another breath at the sight of the ink still dripping down his arm. "My ink!"

"My shirt," he mumbled, pulling the black-stained chambray cloth away from his skin.

She grabbed for the overturned inkwell and held it up to the light. "Oh, no! It's nearly gone! What'll I write with?"

"Blood?" Donovan suggested under his breath.

Grace lunged for the notebook three feet away. A great black blob of ink obscured the writing on half the page. Worse, it had soaked through, and she tried to peel the sheaves of paper apart, but at least ten were hopelessly stuck together. "Oh! Oh, no!"

Reese leaned forward, looking. "It's not too bad. Only a few pages."

"Only a few pages!" she repeated incredulously. "Only a few pages!" She looked on the verge of tears.

Reese looked up at Brew helplessly. The old man coughed with a shake of his head and settled back down in his chair.

Reese frowned back at Grace. "Were they important?"

"Important?"

Was there an echo in this room?

"Of course they were important," she said, tears teetering on the edges of her lashes.

"Well," Reese suggested, "just write them again."

She looked at him as if he'd grown horns. "That's how much you know. Write them again! As if it's so easy!" She sniffed. "I can't rewrite them word for word from memory. It doesn't work that way."

He didn't know how it worked. Though he could both read and write, he'd never had much use for the latter, beyond signing his name to a piece of paper when he had to. More than that had always seemed to him a waste of time. He leaned back against the grainsack, his side starting to ache. "What is it you're writing?"

She slammed the journal shut.

"What is it? A diary?" He tipped his head sideways to try to read it.

She shook her head, spreading her palm protectively across it.

"Am I in it?"

"It's not a diary. It's a..."

"A what?"

She examined a scratch on the brown leather cover. "You'll laugh."

"No, I won't," he promised, holding up his palm.

"It's a book." She blushed crimson.

"A book."

"Yes. At least it's going to be."

"You mean," he asked with a frown, "you're writing a book? Not," he said, praying it wasn't true, "one of those little books you're always going on about?"

"Oh, no." She looked up at him through a sweep of lashes. "Those are true-life adventures. I'm writing fiction."

"Fiction?"

"Made-up stories. You know."

He couldn't help it. He laughed.

"Oh!" Grace pounded the bed with her fist. "I knew you'd laugh at me!"

"No, no, wait." He forced his mouth into a solemn line.

She glared at him. "It's because I'm a woman, isn't it? Well, isn't that just like a man? Thinking that men are the only human beings with brains or imaginations, or... or..."

Brew pulled his hat down over his face, and sank down in his chair, muttering something about Reese having really opened a can of worms now.

"Wait a minute," Reese said. "I—"

"Well, it just so happens, Mr. I-Know-Everything Donovan, that men weren't the only ones present when the good Lord handed out imaginations. There are several, actually, dozens of female authors—the Bronte sisters, Jane—"

"Grace," Reese interrupted.

"—Austen, George Sand—also known Amandine Dupin, who just happens to be a French baronne. There's Mary Shelley, and, well, I could go on."

"Grace!"

"And I'll have you know that someday, I mean to be published right along beside them no matter what anybody—"

"Grace!"

"What?" she snapped.

"I think it's fine you're writing a book."

She blinked as if she hadn't heard him. "You do?"

"Yes."

"Then why did you laugh at me?"

There was a lifetime of hurt behind those words, and he wondered who else had laughed at Grace Turner in her short, interesting life. He'd laughed because she truly believed those silly dime novels were fact, even after all they'd been through. Ace Lawler, for God's sake! But he wouldn't enlighten her today. He couldn't bear to strip all her illusions away when he'd already done such a job on her pride.

If there was a rat in this room, it was him.

"Look, I wasn't laughing
at
you. I mean, a writer." He made a noise of admiration with his tongue. "That's really something. Most writing I've ever done was t' sign my name to a piece of paper. And that, only when I had to."

She raised a wary eyebrow.

"No, I wasn't laughing at you," he went on. "I was just wondering what that imagination of yours could come up with that would be more farfetched than what we've been through the last few days. I mean, what idiot would believe a slip of a girl and an old geezer could break a man with a name like 'Melvin' out of jail and elude a whole posse long enough to make it clean over the border in—more or less—one piece?"

Brew shoved the brim of his hat back, taking exception to the handle "old geezer." Against her will, the corners of Grace's mouth twitched. It was more words strung together than she'd ever heard coming from the recalcitrant gunslinger's mouth and she supposed that in itself was some sort of victory.

"We did all right, didn't we?" she said at last.

Reese grinned. "Aye. So what d'ya say, Drucilla? Can we have a truce?"

Hiding her smile, she pulled her knees up to her chin and hugged her arms around them, her dress covering her legs like a tent. She traced an imaginary circle on the blanket with her finger. "Well, maybe. Only if you buy me a new bottle of ink in Bagdad—Melvin."

"You drive a hard bargain but—"he held out his hand—"done."

His callused hand enveloped hers and for a brief moment, his thumb stroked the sensitive skin between her thumb and forefinger. It took only that small touch to remind her of the more intimate touches they'd shared just hours ago. His eyes darkened as if he were remembering, too.

She pulled her hand away lest Brew see it as well. "How long do you think it will take us in Bagdad to find transportation to mainland Mexico?" she asked.

"Not long, I hope," Donovan answered. "From all appearances, it's little more than a fishing village now. But from what I hear, those who've gotten out of smuggling cotton and into running guns to Juarez for the U.S. government use it as an exchange point. If we're lucky, we might catch a ride as far as Tampico with one of them."

"Gunrunners?" Brew repeated with a frown.

Donovan slid a cool look at him. "Or maybe you'd prefer to wait a month or so for respectable transport. Sanders ought to have a good bead on us by then."

"Now, you know I didn't mean—"

"Nobody said it was going to be a Sunday school picnic, old man," Donovan said sharply. "You want to get to Mexico, those are the kinds of connections I've got." He leaned back against the sack of grain. "If you'd wanted a list of references, you should have asked."