Boots Under Her Bed

by Jodi Thomas

  “Intoxicated, you mean.”

  “Yes. I was intoxicated. I remember very little of that night actually.” Though that was a lie. She remembered all of it. Her father’s chair, the table beside it, her legs draped over the chair arm as she held a snifter of brandy, her third . . . or had it been her fourth? Her skirt a tangle of fabric and lace falling around her thighs.

  “But you do remember asking me—”

  “If you wanted to see me with my clothes off?” she asked, leaning forward, her voice barely a whisper, her chest burning with the same heat rising in a flush up her neck. “Yes. I remember asking you that, but it was the alcohol at fault.”

  “The alcohol may have loosened your tongue, but that sort of invitation don’t come out of nowhere. You’d been thinking about it for a while,” he said, reaching for his drink, his gaze boring into hers as he sipped.

  There was no hiding the mortification she knew colored her face. “It was not an invitation. And why do you insist on talking as if you have had no education?”

  He huffed before looking back down at his food. “Why do you assume I have?”

  “I’ve heard you in conversation with my father. You’re well-spoken. You don’t resort to the sort of language used by the laboring men in Bone Alley.”

  He huffed again, giving her observation no mind. “Tell me what happened with Mick. Where is he? Why haven’t you seen him?”

  Sighing deeply, she returned to her food. “I don’t know where he is. I haven’t heard from him since he left.”

  “When was that?”

  “He came to my hotel room three weeks ago and told me the accommodations had been paid for another two nights. He gave me what money he had and said I’d need to find someplace less expensive to stay after that. And I’d need to find a position as a housekeeper or a nanny until he returned with the funds we needed to finance our ongoing stay.” She pressed her napkin to her mouth before adding, “As far as I knew, we weren’t ever supposed to stay.”

  Zeb mumbled a string of foul words as he scooped up his peas with his corn bread, shaking his head as he shoved the food in his mouth. At least he waited until he had swallowed to ask, “Did he tell you how he lost his money?”

  “My best guess is he gambled it away. He went out most evenings after we dined at the hotel.” She thought back to those meals, how Mick had never seemed present, but anxious, his mind elsewhere. “I followed him once and saw him take a seat at a gaming table in one of the saloons. He greeted the other men as if they were old friends.”

  “Or new enemies.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind,” he said, reaching for his plate of pie. “So your uncle told you to find a position as a housekeeper or nanny, and you found one in a whorehouse instead.”

  “I found a position where I could use my accounting skills.” When he shook his head disparagingly, she said, “I have no experience with children or with keeping house, so when I saw the advertisement for a bookkeeper, I applied.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t find a way to do the charity work that got you into this mess.”

  So he, too, thought what she did was worthless? “Charity work does not provide room and board or an income. I was lucky Miss Porter had advertised for help. But I had every intention of devoting my free time to a local cause. Until you showed up.”

  “I still don’t get why you feel the need to be a savior,” he said, shaking his head as he ate his way through his pie. “The less fortunate already have a lot of champions.”

  Perhaps to his naive eye. “Not all the committees and organizations claiming to dedicate their resources to the poor do.”

  He frowned up at that. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, they have lunches to discuss what they’re going to do,” she said, waving one hand. “They throw balls to raise funds for charity.”

  “Where do the funds go?”

  “I assume they use them to throw more balls.” She shrugged. “Or to pay for the next round of lunches.”

  He made a snorting sort of sound, chuckling as he chewed.

  “I’m not sure what about that is so funny.”

  “It’s not funny.”

  “Then why are you laughing?” she said, pushing away her plate, then reaching back and pinching off one more bite of corn bread.

  “Because I knew you were cynical, but not the extent of your cynicism.”

  “I am not cynical.”

  His look said otherwise. “Are you hearing yourself, Maeve?”

  Curse him for being right. “Okay. I am cynical. But it’s hard not to be when the very thing I want to accomplish is the very thing money has been raised for, and yet it’s unavailable when I could be putting it to use.”

  “Being a savior.”

  “Fixing what’s broken.” Didn’t he understand? “There’s so much that’s broken. So many rules that make no sense and don’t work. So many lives being ruined because those who should be stepping up aren’t.”

  “Again. Why do you have to be the one to fix it?”

  Because I don’t know how to fix you.

  The words surprised her, echoing in her mind, and she shook her head, uncertain how to answer him. Then she reached for her pie. Eating it would keep her from having to talk. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t keep her from having to think.

  She didn’t want to think—not about where her uncle had gone or how she was going to convince Zeb not to take her back to New York or why his being broken bothered her so.

  And that was the biggest bother of all.

  • • •

  “WHY must we leave tonight? Why can’t we wait until morning? I can’t imagine we’ll get far enough this evening to make departing now worth all this trouble.”

  “We’ll get far enough,” Zeb said, budging Maeve’s shoe out of the stirrup so he could adjust the fit of the rise. Her foot swung back and caught his collarbone. He grunted, then said, “And if there’s any trouble, it’s you making it.”

  She lifted her chin and knotted the ties of her bonnet beneath it, her pert nose crinkling as if something smelled. “I still don’t understand why we can’t travel by train. This trip will take forever on horseback.”

  The answer was simple. He couldn’t be confined to a seat in a car on a track and headed in one direction. He had to be free to question anyone who might’ve heard word of Mick Daugherty.

  He weighed his words, regretful that he’d lied when he’d said her father had sent him to bring her home. “It’s highly unlikely your uncle’s holed up at a railhead somewhere. I don’t want to be stuck on a train when it’ll be easier to get to him on foot or horseback.”

  She was frowning as he checked the wear on her horse’s bridle, and she asked him, “Why would Mick be holed up anywhere?”

  “If he gambled away the money he had, he’d need to avoid any creditors looking to be paid.” Though if Sean Daugherty’s brother had gambled away all that money, Zeb hoped he was having better luck trying to recoup the loss. If that was what he was doing. If he hadn’t just hightailed it for good.

  “If that’s what you meant by his having new enemies, I can’t imagine that’s the case.”

  “Start imagining it,” he said, earning himself a loud huff as Maeve’s foot returned to swinging.

  He grabbed her by the ankle, the bones seeming so fragile and tiny, his hand so awkward and large. “You kick me again, Maeve, and so help me God, I will strip off both of your shoes and you’ll be riding to New York in your stockings.”

  “I did not kick you,” she said, but she did not pull free from his grasp.

  He held her another moment, for no reason that made any sense, then let her go and moved to the packhorse.

  Her exasperated breath followed him. “Could you not at least have staged this . . . kidnapping in a wagon?”

  A wagon. Might’ve been a good idea. Slower, sure, but tying her to a wagon would’ve been a whole lot easier than what he was facing making sure she
stayed in the saddle. Which made stealing her shoes sound even better.

  “This ain’t a kidnapping. You ain’t a kid.”

  “Stop being so literal. You’re forcing me to accompany you against my will. That, Zebulon Crow, is exactly what a kidnapping is.”

  “Take it up with Sean when we get back to New York,” he said, walking by her again.

  “I do not want to take it up with my father. And I do not want to go back to New York.” She leaned close enough to squeeze his shoulder, her fingers like tiny talons holding him as she begged. “Zeb, please. You go back. Tell him you couldn’t find me. Or tell him you found me married and living in a home on the range. Or running with the Wild Bunch.”

  Thinking of Maeve married had Zeb grinding his jaw. Even more so than her making the acquaintance of any Wild Bunch members while working in Fannie Porter’s brothel. “I’d rather tell him the truth. That I found you in a whorehouse.”

  “You can’t tell him that,” she said, pushing him away with a huff. “It’ll kill him. And then he’ll kill me.”

  Zeb felt a hard pull at the corner of his mouth and fought against it. Maeve had never been stupid. Hardheaded and contrary, yes. She knew the trouble she was in. “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before talking Mick into sneaking you out of New York.”

  “At least Mick understands,” she grumbled, tugging at the fabric caught beneath her knee. “I hate riding horseback.”

  Of course she did. “I thought you said Miss Porter gave you a pair of breeches so you could sit astride.”

  “Can you see my mother’s face were I to ride up to the door astride?” She shuddered as if picturing just that. “I hope by the time we reach the city we can switch to a more suitable means of conveyance.”

  “Does that mean you’re going to stop giving me grief about the trip?”

  “I haven’t given you any grief about the trip.”

  She was right. All the grief had been about not wanting to take it, not liking the horse and sidesaddle he’d paid the livery stable handsomely for, and not agreeing to the alternative clothing solution he’d offered. He could hardly wait to hear how many things she found wrong once they got under way.

  It was a ride he wasn’t looking forward to. He wouldn’t be able to sit his horse from dawn to dusk, lost in thought, scanning the horizon for approaching riders, setting up camp free of any care for Maeve’s comfort.

  Plus, women had to talk. Women had to stop to rest or to see to their personal business. Maeve wasn’t as soft as many he’d known and, having come all this way with Mick Daugherty, she was already aware of the difficulties that lay ahead. Still, the next few weeks would be challenging.

  “Do we have enough supplies? These packs seem lighter than the ones Mick brought, and he and I had the convenience of scheduled rail and coach stops while you and I will not.”

  That was because Mick’s packs had contained a whole lot more than supplies.

  “Stay here,” he said. “I need to have a word with Miss Porter.”

  “Where exactly is it you think I’m going to go?”

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then opened them and made his way to the boardinghouse’s front door, where Miss Porter had appeared. “Appreciate all you did for Miss Daugherty, keeping her out of trouble, fed, and sheltered.”

  Miss Porter gave him careful consideration. “I hired her to keep my books. Room and board were part of her pay. She kept herself out of trouble.”

  “If you say so, ma’am.”

  “I say so because it’s the truth,” she said, and Zeb nodded.

  He admired an honest woman as much as an honest man, and Fannie Porter’s reputation had proved to be true. He handed the brothel’s madam a slip of paper he’d carried folded in his vest pocket. “This is my employer’s banking contact in Houston. If you hear word of Mick Daugherty, would you telegraph me there?”

  She nodded as she gave the information a cursory glance, then, while creasing the paper again, she asked, “Are you going to take care of her?”

  “Of course I’m going to take care of her.” And why would she think otherwise?

  Her expression said she doubted his sincere claim. “Some men wouldn’t. Some men would take advantage instead.”

  “I’m not some men—”

  “I know who you are. You work for her father, and you have a vested interest in seeing she gets home safely.”

  “I do have a vested interest,” he said, but it wasn’t about getting paid.

  What her father had paid him for was to find his brother, find the money his brother had stolen, and get said money to his banker in Houston. Zeb had come after Maeve for another reason.

  He’d come after her because no one else would.

  Chapter 4

  ZEB may have been surprised to find Sean Daugherty’s daughter working in a whorehouse, but he wasn’t surprised by how helpful she was in setting up camp for the night. She was driven, whether doing charity work, learning to keep books, running off suitors who asked for her hand, or gathering kindling for their supper’s fire.

  She didn’t let her serviceable skirt get in the way, and she didn’t complain about feeling the craggy ground through the soles of her shoes, but picked her way through the brush like she thought nothing of the conditions. She only yelped once, and that he figured was due to a critter of some kind surprising her. He liked that she didn’t come running back to where he was unloading their gear from the horses, expecting a rescue or giving up.

  Yeah, he knew old Stefan Feagan had been teaching accounting to Maeve. Her mother had been too busy flitting about with her society friends to notice, which was damn sad, to Zeb’s way of thinking. Instead of only seeing what her daughter did outside the home and deeming those things improper, Helena Daugherty should’ve paid attention to how smart Maeve was, how in need of a way to engage her mind.

  And Sean was no better. Zeb had considered more than once hiring a couple of Mulberry Bend hooligans to make a true run at the man’s carriage. Not because Zeb had any need to prove his worth by stopping an attack Sean himself hadn’t staged, but because the other man needed shaking up. How could he be so concerned with his own world that he was blind to the way his daughter spent her time?

  Those two were about the least deserving parents he’d run across in his day—

  “Is this enough?”

  Zeb looked up from where he was securing the horses, allowing them plenty of room to graze. Kindling at her feet, Maeve dusted her hands on her skirt, the ribbons of her bonnet fluttering in the same wind that rustled through the copse of trees at the creek’s edge.

  It was a wind that was sitting poorly with Zeb, all heavy and sudden and wet. The weather wasn’t looking so good, the sky to the west turning the color of the barrel of his Colt, the clouds hanging low, as if aching to give birth to something foul.

  They probably should’ve waited until morning to set out for Houston, meaning it might’ve been a good idea to listen to Maeve . . . “It’ll be enough if we don’t get rained on,” he said, their bedrolls tucked under his arm.

  Her eyes went saucer wide. “Rained on?”

  He brushed on by, talking at her as he did. “Ain’t you been watching the clouds?”

  “No, I ain’t been watching the clouds,” she said, causing him to huff, though his mouth did quirk. “Am I supposed to do that as well as gather kindling?”

  “You being the observant sort, I figured you would’ve noticed how dark it’s getting behind us.”

  “Since we were riding away from that direction, no. I hadn’t.” She glanced over her shoulder, looked back with less pique in her expression. “But now that you mention it . . . I don’t suppose you have any sort of shelter in all your supplies.”

  The fact that she inquired as to their situation, rather than demanding he return her to San Antonio or see to her comfort right then and there, went a long way to setting his mind at ease. He gave a nod as he snapped the blanket he held by tw
o corners. “Knapsacks. Old army issue. Two beneath your bedroll, two beneath mine. Button all four together, pitch ’em on a rope strung between two trees, and you got yourself a tent.”

  She looked toward the thicket of trees and brush hugging the banks of the nearby creek. “Should we do that? Get them . . . pitched?”

  He preferred not to take the time and gave the sky consideration as he returned to his horse. “Storm looks like it’s going to slide by to the north. We should be okay.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  “Then we’ll grab ’em off the ground and wrap up best we can,” he said, rustling in his pack for a hand shovel and frowning at what sounded like the wailing of a violin coming from down by the water.

  As he set about digging a pit for the fire, Maeve asked, “How did you even find me?”

  “There ain’t so many rail lines headed west that asking the right questions didn’t get me the answers I needed,” he said with a shrug. “Besides, Mick had been telling everyone for weeks that he wanted to see Texas before he died. And since you took off at the same time, it weren’t hard to figure out where you’d gone.”

  When she didn’t respond, he looked up, only to catch her smiling. “What?”

  The smile widened, dimples slicing into her cheeks, her eyes twinkling. “Until this trip, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak so many words at one time.”

  He grunted. “I don’t usually have much to say.”

  “Why is that?” she asked as he began laying out the makings for the fire. “You’re obviously well educated. You come from good stock, as my father would say. But you never seem inclined to engage in conversation.”

  “With you, you mean.”

  “Well, yes. I wouldn’t know if you converse with others when I’m not there.”

  Wiping his hands on his thighs, he got to his feet. “What do you want to talk about?”

  She gave a little lift of her shoulders. “I didn’t really have a subject in mind. I was just commenting that you’ve been less taciturn today than you usually are when we’re together. But, since you asked, I wouldn’t mind learning more about you.”