Thunder on the Plains (39 page)

Sunny smiled through tears. “You're the best thing that ever happened to Stuart. And what would
I
do if you weren't around to talk to?”

Vi came closer again. “
I'm
not the one you should be talking to now. You have to tell Colt or go crazy, Sunny. You know that.”

Sunny looked at her lap and swallowed. “It scares me. If something did come of it, can't you just see the cruel headlines slamming Colt? I don't know if I can do that to him, Vi. Maybe it would be selfish of me to tell him. Deep inside he's a kind, sweet man who's been hurt enough.”

“You've been secretly hurting yourself, Sunny, for years.”

Sunny shook her head. “That doesn't matter.” She slowly rose. “Thanks for coming over, Vi. Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, on a day like today that sounds wonderful.”

Sunny walked over and pulled the cord that rang the kitchen help.

“What are you going to do, Sunny?”

“I don't know yet. I do feel better talking about it though. You were right about that.” She pushed a piece of hair away from her face. “I'll give it a little more time. Maybe if I get back to my work I can forget about it for a while. Maybe in the meantime Colt will leave the railroad and go on to something else, find another woman. For now I think I'll just concentrate on the railroad, as I've been doing.”

“Just like that?” Vi smiled sadly. “You're a fool if you think you can forget him, Sunny.”

A maid came into the parlor in response to being called. “Bring us some tea, Lilly,” Sunny said. The girl nodded and darted away. Sunny looked at Vi. “How do you think Stuart would feel if I, if Colt and I—”

“Stuart thinks the world of Colt. As far as something serious between the two of you, that might be another story; but I can handle Stuart. Besides, he would just want you to be happy.”

“Do you really think so? Before you came along he seemed to hate me almost as much as Vince does.”

“I don't think Vince hates you as a person, Sunny. You're just in the way of his grand scheme, that's all. He's coming around a little.”

“Yes, he seems to be.” Sunny walked to the window again, picturing Colt riding out on the Plains in the cold rain. She hoped the coming winter would keep the Indians calm for a while so he would be safe until she decided what she should do about these painful, utterly forbidden wants that had plagued her since seeing him again. “Do you think he's thinking of me like I'm thinking of him?”

Vi watched her lovingly, feeling sorry for this young woman who had never had a normal childhood, who always had to be so strong when inside she was so soft. “Yes, Sunny. I think he thinks about you all the time.”

Sunny watched one particular raindrop meander down the window. “I'll wait out the winter,” she said quietly. “Maybe I'll feel different come spring.”

***

Colt hunkered against the blizzard winds as he guided Dancer toward the lights in the distance. He had no doubt the lights came from the infamous “hell on wheels” camp town that followed the construction crews. He had tried to avoid the constantly migrating town and its whores and cheating gamblers, but in this blinding storm, and with night coming on, he knew he would never make it back to the construction site for shelter. With deep snows burying tracks, he would not be able to follow the rails back to Casement and the men. He had no choice now but to hit the camp town and find a place out of the wind, both for him and Dancer.

Dancer waded laboriously through snow as high as his belly, and getting higher all the time. This was one of the worst winters Colt could remember, and he figured he had seen some of the worst. He had no doubt that construction would be halted altogether for a few days, and in this kind of weather, there was little, if any, threat from Indians.

He felt solidly frozen by the time he reached the lights. He shouted at a man coming out of one of the tents, asking where he could put up his horse, and the man simply pointed to the street of makeshift tents and shanties. Colt could not see what lay beyond, so he headed Dancer in that direction until he saw what looked like a horse shed made of sod and a sign that read
Livery Stable
. He dismounted and opened the door, which blew out of his hand.

“Hurry it up,” someone shouted. “I'm tryin' to keep it warm in here!”

Colt smacked Dancer and herded him inside, then shut the door. “You got room for one more?” he asked.

“I reckon. Dollar a night.”

Colt stomped his feet and removed his hat and a woolen scarf.

“You're an Indian!” the man grumbled.

Colt took a good look at the owner of the voice, seeing before him a small, bearded man who squinted back at him suspiciously. “I'm a scout for the U.P. I got caught in this blizzard and need some shelter.” He untied his saddlebags and slung them over his shoulder, then took some coins from a leather bag tied to his belt. “Here's your dollar. Where does a man get a stiff drink and maybe a bath around here?”

The man looked him over more. “A ways back up the street—Billie's Place, it's called. You better watch yourself. Somebody looks like you can get himself in trouble.”

“I can handle myself. Who's Billie?”

“Whore—Billie White—out of Omaha.” Colt's eyes widened with surprise, but the livery owner didn't notice. He was checking over the horse. “I reckon if you need a woman, one of them she brought with her will accommodate an Indian if you've got the money.”

Colt gave him a look of disgust. “Thanks,” he said with a hint of anger. “Take good care of that horse. He means a lot to me.” He turned and left, putting his hat and scarf back on and bending his head low against the wind. He struggled through the snow, going up close to each tent and cabin to peek inside and see if he had reached the right place yet. He finally reached a tent that was bigger than the others. Someone inside was actually playing a plunky tune on a piano. The wind howled so badly that he had not heard the music until he reached the entrance flap, and he wondered how in hell these people had gotten something as heavy as a piano clear out here. He supposed that where there was a will, or in this case a buck to be made, there was a way to do just about anything.

He pulled back the opening and stepped inside, and the piano music stopped for a moment as a motley bunch of strayed railroad workers looked up at him from four makeshift card tables. A black potbelly stove sat in the center of the tent, its pipe sticking through the top, a hot fire inside keeping the tent reasonably warm, although most everyone still wore jackets.

For a brief moment the only sound was the wind outside and the flapping of the tent's walls as people stared at Colt. He figured there were ten or eleven men inside, including a man serving drinks. A board placed over two barrels served as a bar. “Come on in,” the bartender said.

Now that Colt had been fully scrutinized, everyone returned to their drinking and cards, and the piano player returned to his keyboard.

“Colt?”

Colt turned to the woman who had spoken his name, and he broke into a grin. “Billie! The livery owner told me you were here.”

Billie White brightened, jumping off a man's lap and walking up to hug him. Colt let his arms go around her, and it felt good. “Colt, you big, crazy Indian you!” Billie turned to the others. “Everybody, this is Colt Travis, an old friend.”

“An old
customer
, you mean,” one man teased. Most laughed good-naturedly.

Colt recognized the man and a couple of others from the work camp. How and when they had made it here was not his concern, except that to be here was to risk being fired. Casement hated these places, where whores and gamblers and whiskey peddlers took hardworking railroad men for everything they earned. He wouldn't be here himself if not for the storm.

“Colt, where have you been? My God, how long ago did you leave—sixty-two, wasn't it?”

“Over four years ago. I've been through a war since then—spent some time at Andersonville.”

“Oh, Colt, you poor thing!” Billie stepped back, looking him over, her eyes filling with lust. “Well, you certainly don't look any the worse for wear now.” She smiled seductively. “Want a drink?”

“Sure.” Colt followed her over to the temporary bar, which took only five steps. He set down his saddlebags, and Billie ordered a whiskey. She turned and looked up at him, opening her woolen cape to expose a low-cut red dress that flaunted her bosom.

“Need anything else?”

Colt took a long, hard look. “I, uh, I don't think you know what you'd be in for. It's a long story, but I haven't been with a woman since I left you back in Omaha.”

She smiled eagerly. “Well, well.” She unbuttoned his wolfskin coat and ran a hand over his chest. “Somebody needs to reacquaint you with the more pleasant things in life.”

He wished he could have explained to Sunny why he had left so quickly that day he saw her after the Indian raid. It was bad enough wanting her the way he did, but after this long abstinence, someone he had no right touching in the first place was far too dangerous for him to be around.
Damn
her!
he thought. And damn himself for taking a job that left open the possibility of seeing her again. Part of him knew it was just what he had wanted, but another part of him told him he was completely crazy for constantly risking the pain it always caused him to see her. He was always hoping she would get uglier, or get the hell married—
some
thing,
any
thing! Why did she have to still have those beautiful blue eyes, and that look she always gave him that made him want to eat her up.

He pulled Billie to him and planted a long, hard kiss on her mouth. “I expect you're just the one to show me all over again,” he told her.

She laughed, turning her wrist to grasp his hand and place it against her bosom, while she licked at his lips. “I never forgot you, Colt. It was just like I said it would be—I never found anybody else like you. Your name should be Stallion, not Colt.”

He tightened his hold and kissed her again. Some of the men made lewd remarks, while others whistled.

“Give it to her good, Injun,” somebody yelled.

The men all laughed, and Billie pulled away and handed Colt a shot of whiskey, which he downed immediately, mostly to warm his blood, partly to help ease the pain that thoughts of Sunny had given him since he'd seen her again.

“This place gets pretty wild in the warm months,” Billie said, ordering Colt another whiskey. “The girls and I can hardly keep up with business. I've made a fortune following the railroad camps. Men who've been without awhile will pay anything for a woman.” She handed him the second shot glass. “How about you?”

He leaned closer. “I figured after what you told me last time we were together, that you'd do it for free, considering what
you
get out of it.”

She threw her head back and laughed again, and Colt downed the second drink. “By God, I just
might
do it for nothing,” she told him.

“Hey, Travis,” one of the men at a table shouted. “What was it like being in the Icelander's private car back last fall? She the cold fish everybody says she is?”

Colt turned from Billie, scowling. “What?”

“The Icelander—you know, that there Sunny Landers—Queen of the Railroad, Miss High-and-Mighty-Big-Money. What's she really like? I seen you go inside her car the day them Indians raided us.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “You were in there kind of a long time.”

Chuckles and whistles moved throughout the tent, while outside the wind howled louder than ever. Colt stepped away from Billie and a little closer to the man who had made the remark, aware that his anger was as much from his own frustration at being so easily shaken by the sound of Sunny's name as it was from the remark itself. “Miss Landers's brother fixed up a wound I got,” he answered. “That's all.”

The man, a well-built Irish spike man, laughed in a kind of growl. “Sure. I don't expect she'd get too friendly with the lower help. They say that one's cold as ice. That's why we call her the Icelander. Ice—Landers. Get it?” The man returned to dealing cards. “Only men with money and fancy suits can melt that one,” he told the others. “They say she goes down only for rich men and congressmen—anybody who helps her financially or with the railroad.”

The others laughed, but Colt was not smiling. He leaned over the table, looking big and menacing, and the other three men scooted away. “That's what they say, is it? You know that for a fact, mister?”

The Irishman sobered, glaring right back at him. “Only fact I know is that there's no other way for a female to make it into that kind of money and power. We all know they can't think for themselves.” The man smiled nervously. “Don't tell me you're sticking up for that rich bitch! Hell, she could buy and sell you a million times over, and she'd do it, too, if it meant money in her pockets! Or maybe she's the type who gets a thrill out of seducing her common help.”

Colt grabbed the man by the jacket and jerked him out of his chair with such a force that the man's body hit the card table and spilled it to the dirt floor. “You don't know a damn thing about Sunny Landers,” Colt raged. “She happens to be one of the nicest ladies there ever was—and you've got no right going around spouting lies about somebody you don't know anything about!” He brought a foot up into the man's groin, and the others inside the tent gasped; one of the other two prostitutes in the tent let out a startled scream. The Irishman doubled over, and Colt brought a knee up into his face, breaking his nose. He shoved him then, landing him into yet another card table. The men at the table sprang out of their seats, and the table and the Irishman went down together. Blood poured from the Irishman's nose, and he curled up against the pain in his scrotum.