Wolver's Gold (The Wolvers) (9 page)

Chapter 8

"What you did tonight will be all over town tomorrow, you know," Rachel told him when he turned the subject back to Holt.

"Who needs a newspaper when you have Eustace,
heh?"

She was surprised by his astuteness. "How did you know?"

He shrugged. "Eustace carries all the gossip. In spite of being an omega in the pack, he's found a place where he can be both useful and made welcome. He sleeps in the shack outside that privacy fence of yours. I don't think he saw, but he definitely heard, everything."

"That's not a good thing, you know.
Barnabas Holt is a curly wolf and he won't take kindly to having his name bandied about."

McCall leaned toward her, forearms on the
table. "Okay, I got the bandied about part, but what the hell's a curly wolf?"

"A dangerous wolf," she said primly. He seemed like a very nice man and his actions tonight had been nothing short of chivalrous. She was enjoying their talk at the table but he needed to understand there were lines of civilized behavior one simply didn't cross in Gold Gulch. She straightened her shoulders and gave him her own version of 'the eye'. "And I'll thank you to leave the bad language at the door of the saloon."

"What bad language? You said it first," he teased, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair.

"I did no such thing." Her chin raised up a little bit more. "I forgave your more, um, colorful words outside and when we first entered, uttered as they were in the heat of the moment, but I won't have them in my kitchen, Mr. McCall."

"Why, Miss Kincaid. Or is it Ms.? I'm never sure which one to use."

"Miss will do nicely. While we're aware of the outsider's use of the term, Ms. didn't exist in 1870, so you won't find it used in Gold Gulch. A woman is either a Miss or a Missus. There's nothing in between," she lectured, suddenly the Schoolmarm instead of the Innkeeper. She took another sip of her whiskey. "And don't change the subject, Mr. McCall. You cannot use those words."

"What words were those, Miss Kincaid? I can't remember saying anything particularly colorful." He took a sip from his own glass and watched her over the rim.

"You know perfectly well what words," she said severely.

The corner of the man's mouth twitched and then stretched into a serious line. It twitched again and then stretched again and finally he laughed outright.

"Mr. McCall," she said, letting a little of her temper show, "This is not funny."

"Maybe not, but you are," he said. "It's no wonder your suitors keep coming back for more. When you cop that prissy attitude with your mouth all puckered up and those green eyes snapping, I've got to admit, it sure as hell doesn't make a man want to behave. It's kind of cute."

"Pups are cute, Mr. McCall. Kittens are cute. I am not."

"Oh, baby, you do live in another world," he snorted.

"Mr. McCall!"

He raised his hands in surrender and laughed. "Okay, okay. Bad words. You're going to have to help me out here. I need to get a handle on the dos and don'ts of Gold Gulch."

Rachel eyed him suspiciously, but he seemed to have himself in order and was waiting seriously for her response. "The H word, for one," she said soberly, taking care she didn't pucker her lips. "It's fine for the preacher to say on Sunday, though he usually says Perdition."

"Hell, why can he say it and I can't?" He took another sip of his drink.

"He," she said in a no-nonsense manner and wondered if 'cute' included the little shake of her shoulders and bobble of her head, "is referring to the place where sinners will reside for eternity."

"Maybe I am, too," he argued, but then held up his hands again and laughed. "Okay, okay. No hell. What else?"

"'A' words," she said and flushed crimson. She wasn't prissy, was she? And what exactly did he mean by calling her baby and why was her wolf purring like a 'cute' kitten?

"Abysmal? Anaconda? Abyssinian? Or just the short ones; an, about, aware…"

Drawn back to the reality of his teasing, she hissed,
"Ass, or any combinations thereof." And then snapped her mouth shut in surprise at what she'd said.

"Well, Perdition, Miss Kincaid. By the time I finished identifying him as the nether regions of a donkey, the dumb ass would have forgotten the beginning of the damn sentence." He said it straight faced, but smiled when he saw she'd caught on.

"You're tormenting me, Mr. McCall." She tried to keep her own face straight and firm.

When he winked at her, she sputtered in indignation and then started to giggle. The effect of the alcohol must have softened her resolve. Ah, well, it was too late now.

"I didn't know you could use the word in so many combinations," she whispered, "What is…?" and then covered her mouth with her hand as if to keep the words from spilling out.

"Go ahead and ask," McCall said, laughing at her or with her, she wasn't sure. "You know you want to. I promise not to tell Eustace," he added as an afterthought.

Rachel thought about it, but only for a moment. In for a penny, in for a pound. She leaned across the table and whispered, as if someone might overhear, "What's an asshat, Mr. McCall?"

He leaned across the table until they were almost nose to nose and whispered back. "Think about where Holt's head is most of the time." He waited a beat, saw her confusion, and prompted, "Up his…"

"Oh. Oh!" she said as the image presented itself and then she covered her laughter with her hand. "That isn't very nice."

"It w
asn't meant to be. See, dog," he said to the animal lying with its head between its paws on the rug next to Rachel's chair, "I told you she had a sense of humor."

The dog lifted his head and gave a short, sharp bark as if in answer and then sniffed upward in Rachel's direction before he returned to his foot pillow and closed his eyes.

"You made Dog a little nervous when he saw you take your broom to that fella in the restaurant."

"Oh, Mr. McCall, I'm afraid I haven't shown myself to you in a very pleasant light. Truly, I'm not usually like that and I don't know what came over me today. I shouldn't have done it," she admitted. "Jack Coogan has plagued me since we were in school and today,
for some strange reason, I just couldn't seem to tolerate it anymore." She was no longer smiling.

"You shouldn't have to tolerate it, Miss Kincaid."

Rachel looked at him, really looked at him, and there was no laughter in those deep, gray eyes, just as she'd heard no humor in his voice.

"You really mean that."

Then he smiled, but it wasn't teasing. It was soft and gentle. "I always say what I mean when it comes to the important stuff."

"Thank you, Mr. McCall," she whispered and felt a little foolish because she ha
d to look away. Her eyes were misting. Probably another effect of the alcohol. To cover her overly emotional reaction to his words she went on.

"Mr. Holt didn't think I'd have the courage to bear witness."

"In my line of work, it pays to be observant and from what I've observed so far, Miss Kincaid, you're a firecracker waiting to explode. There's a fire in you as bright as your hair and heaven help the guy you decide to burn with it. You try to hide it behind that prim and proper exterior, but those green eyes of yours are a dead giveaway. I've known you for less than twenty-four hours and I see it. If Barnabas Holt can't see it, then he's a damn fool."

"Language, Mr. McCall," she admonished, but she was smiling, too.

"I am watching my language, Miss Kincaid. If I wasn't, I'd have said fucking fool." He laughed as he pushed to his feet. "Sounds like the washer is done. Let's get those tablecloths back on the line. You need your sleep."

*****

The next day Rachel learned why her father arose late each morning. It wasn't just the late hours he kept. It was what he kept those late hours with; whiskey.

Mr. McCall measured it in fingers. Three glasses times two finger's worth didn't
seem like that much and her wolver metabolism should have burned it off quickly. Still, she'd never tasted hard liquor before and Mr. McCall's fingers were a great deal larger than hers, though hers were almost as rugged and rough.

She held out her hands in front of her, inspecting backs and palms, and decided she needed to stop by The Ladies' Emporium to see if
the sisters who worked there had anything to soften them. It wouldn't hurt to file and buff her nails either. Just because she wasn't on the hunt for a mate, didn't mean she should let herself go.

But soft hands and glossy nails would have to wait. She had breakfast to attend to.

Her eyes burned and her head ached and her movements felt awkward and sluggish and her brain, well, it wasn't working at all. She had to double her batch of pancakes because she'd poured in too much milk. She had to think about slicing the ham, even though she'd been doing it for most of her life. Needing all her concentration to perform the simplest tasks, her mind still wandered to the night before.

The Second's vehemence worried her. His
pursuit of her had started over a year ago. At first, he accepted her rebuffs with mild amusement, though she repeatedly explained she wasn't being coy. Last night, in addition to frightening her, he'd said time was running out. What did that mean?

"You servin' them flapjacks or
makin' charcoal?" Bertie turned the dozen pancakes before taking off her shawl.

"I'm sorry, Bertie. I don't know
what's the matter with me."

"Didn't we have this conversation yesterday?"

"I guess we did." Her fingers went to her temple to press away the jolt of pain that accompanied her laugh. “I spilled my basket of laundry last night and had to wash it again. I got to bed late and woke up this morning with a bit of a headache."

"Yep, that laundry'll do it every time."
Bertie snickered as she lifted one of the glasses left in the sink from the night before and sniffed it. "Nope. This isn't yesterday's conversation at all. Have you been drinking? No, don't answer that. Of course you've been drinking. Who have you been drinking with? And don't tell me you needed a nip to help you sleep or I'll have to ask just who it is you're sleeping with. There are two glasses here."

"Bertie!"

"Don't you Bertie me. You wouldn't be the first and you won't be the last. It's against nature to ask wolvers to remain celibate until they mate and you'll notice that them doing the asking are spending their time at Daisy's." She piled the platter high with golden cakes.

Rachel
rolled down her sleeves and took off her apron after loading her platter with ham. "It wasn't like that. The Second got a little rough with his courting and Mr. McCall came running to my assistance." She frowned at a memory she couldn't clearly recall. Mr. McCall came running.

Bertie gave Rachel's back a gentle shove in the direction of the dining room.

"You get in there and get them fed and send them on their way. And then you get right back in this kitchen and tell me what went on here last night. You're a wicked, wicked girl to keep me hanging like this."

Rachel was in no hurry to 'get in there'.
In spite of the way it began and the headache she'd suffered in the morning, she'd enjoyed her evening with Mr. McCall. He'd teased her, yes, but in a friendly way. He'd asked her about the town and the hotel and while he gave her a hard time about the bad language, he did listen to what she told him about acceptable behavior in Gold Gulch.

He asked for her opinions, too, on the workings of Gold Gulch, and not once did he tell her to leave her concerns to wiser heads or give her that tolerant smile that said she was female
and didn't understand. Because of that, she'd probably told him too much and that both worried and embarrassed her. Now that he'd had time to reflect, would he think she was disloyal to her Alpha and the Mate? Or would he see her as a carping female?

Much of the evening was unclear in her mind, partly because her newly awakened wolf was excited and distracting. It seemed to roll and howl with glee every time Challenger McCall spoke and several times, Rachel needed to ask him to repeat what he'd said.

One thing he said, though, was clear in her mind and one of the reasons it remained so was because her wolf chose that moment to sigh and settle. It was that calmness within her that made her remember.

It was when he handed her the last peg for the last cloth on the line. Their fingers touched and when she took the peg from him, he captured her fingers with his. His touch was light and gentle, not rude or aggressive at all and he used his free hand to tuck the curl at her forehead back in to place. His eyes were soft as velvet when he looked into hers.

"I won't promise to cure all your worries, Miss Rachel Kincaid, but you have my word I'll take care of two. Jack Coogan and Barnabas Holt are my worries, now. Neither one should bother you again, but if one is stupid enough to try, you let me know and don't be shy about it either. You hear? A lady like you deserves better than the likes of them and I promise I'll put a stop to it one way or another. Nobody messes with my red haired hellion." He'd laughed and it, too, was soft as velvet. "Can I say that, Miss Manners? Can I say hellion?"