“We could kill quite a few with your new artillery piece.” As a tactician, Rising Wolf was superb, and his eyes gleamed with all the pregnant possibilities of the site Hazard had chosen at the top of the mountain.
“And lose the mine,” Hazard reminded him.
“Are you so sure it’s important? We’ve always been a prosperous clan. Why do we need more than we have now?”
“The yellow eyes aren’t going to stop coming. Not with the gold. And the buffalo won’t last forever.” It wasn’t the first time the two men had gone over this ground.
“There’s people who’ll disagree with you about that,” Rising Wolf said pleasantly.
“They can disagree,” Hazard said just as pleasantly. “In the meantime, I’ll stockpile gold.”
“Jon,” Blaze said, softly interrupting, “do you want me to try to make some breakfast?”
“So she’s learned how to cook?” Rising Wolf inquired in Absarokee. He understood English as well as Hazard. They’d been raised as brothers and shared the squaw man Alonzo Kent as a kindly uncle. Their English was upper-class, learned mainly from Alonzo Kent, Baronet, the younger son of a younger son who had been sent abroad for his health. He’d reached Montana Territory before it had been named in the train of a German prince collecting New World fauna and flora and was near death with consumption when he first saw the Yellowstone. Hazard’s clan was camping nearby, and his aunt took Alonzo in and cured him. They fell in love and he never returned to England.
“Thank you, Miss Braddock,” Rising Wolf politely said, offering Blaze a casual, elegant bow, “I’d like breakfast very much.”
“You know English,” she exclaimed. “How very nice. Hazard, why didn’t you tell me?”
“You probably haven’t had much time to talk,” Rising Wolf murmured in their native tongue, innuendo flagrant in his husky tone.
“Cute,” Hazard retorted brusquely, then turned back to answer Blaze. He thought of the hundreds of thousands of fragments and people and anecdotes of his life she knew nothing about and was nonplussed for a moment. “A white man married our aunt—he was a fur trader,” Hazard diffidently said, “and we both learned English as children.” She looked very desirable lying abed and it annoyed him momentarily that Rising Wolf was attentively surveying her in languorous semidress. “I’ll bathe while you attend to breakfast,” he abruptly remarked. “After you.” He indicated the door with a gesture of his head, and Rising Wolf preceded him outside. “Put on your slacks this morning,” Hazard ordered sotto voce as he prepared to follow Rising Wolf. He wasn’t in the mood to share her, even visually, with Rising Wolf.
“They shrank when I washed them,” Blaze whispered back.
“Put on a pair of mine.”
“They’re too big. I could wear one of the dresses you—”
“No. Put on the pants,” he said, each word quietly emphasized.
“Yes sir,” she murmured, recognizing his jealousy.
“And we’re getting some clothes for you, immediately. Now no games, Blaze. I want you wearing pants when I get back.”
“Yes, master,” she sweetly purred.
Her meek compliance raised a trace of distrust in Hazard’s mind. She was rarely submissive; he corrected himself—she was never submissive. He jabbed a peremptory finger at her. “And a shirt,” he added for safety.
When they returned some time later, Blaze was monitoring the bacon sizzling in a pan on the stove, and a swift glance told Hazard it wasn’t intolerably burned for a change, only pleasingly crisp. He was also grateful to see she had actually followed instructions for once. She wore one of his shirts tucked into a pair of his slacks, rolled up several times at the bottom and belted into gathers at her narrow waist. Relieved she was fully clothed, he overlooked the fact that she looked like a waif from an orphanage. “Are there eggs left?” he asked, the familiar routine of helping Blaze with the meals so commonplace he fell into it naturally.
“You used them yesterday,” Blaze replied without turning from the stove. “I don’t remember.”
Seating himself at the table, Rising Wolf looked up at Hazard and said with a mocking grin, “Learning to cook too?”
“Hazard’s a marvelous help,” Blaze exclaimed before Hazard could reply. “If it wasn’t for him, we’d starve.”
“You’ll have to show me your cooking skills sometime when you come back home,” Rising Wolf declared, amusement in the rich timbre of his voice, although his face was blank as a statue.
“Not likely,” Hazard muttered, knowing he’d hear endless jokes about cooking the next time he visited camp.
“And he washes dishes and cleaned up the floor and everything after the … well … the other evening,” Blaze went on more delicately when she heard Hazard clear his throat in warning. She was proud of his gallantry. Turning, she saw he was mildly embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” she quickly apologized, wiping her hands on the oversized pants. “I forgot about all your masculine prejudices.”
“It’s all right,” Hazard acknowledged.
“Yes, he can astound everyone at the summer hunt,” Rising Wolf asserted, a teasing light in his eyes.
Glimpsing the sharp look Hazard cast at Rising Wolf, Blaze inquired, “What’s a summer hunt?” And to herself, she wondered why he did not want it mentioned.
“Tell her,” Rising Wolf prompted, entertained by Hazard’s awkward and precarious situation.
Reluctantly he complied. “The clans gather to hunt and socialize,” he tersely said.
“How lovely! Like a grand picnic. Will you have many relatives there to visit?” Her voice had risen in excitement like a young child’s.
“I won’t be there to find out,” Hazard said, quietly but emphatically, and, turning back to Rising Wolf, glared at him for bringing the subject up.
Lapsing into Absarokee, Rising Wolf suggested, “You could look for the father, if you came.”
“If he’s alive, he’ll find me,” Hazard replied in the same melodic tongue.
Rising Wolf shrugged and spoke in English once again. “Everyone will miss you this summer.”
“It can’t be helped,” Hazard retorted in cool, clipped accents.
Blaze glanced cautiously from one man to the other; she realized she shouldn’t interfere in Hazard’s life any more than she already had, and there must be some private matter they were discussing in their own language. It was Hazard’s decision, after all, she acknowledged, but … she hesitated for only a fraction of a second more before her impetuosity overcame her finer motives of sensitivity. “Could we go? Could we? Please, Hazard, it would be such fun.”
“No.”
“Why not?” she cheerfully charged, as immune to his refusal as any others in her life. “I’ve never seen an Indian village, or a summer hunt or even an Indian except you and Rising Wolf and our scouts.”
Hazard’s back stiffened. “It’s not a sideshow arranged for your amusement.”
“Don’t be so touchy, dammit. I didn’t mean it that way and you know it.”
Rising Wolf’s mouth dropped a bit before he caught himself. He’d never seen Hazard talked to like that before—not by anyone and certainly not by a woman. But then he’d never known Hazard to cook for a woman before, or clean up for a woman. In the half-second that elapsed before Hazard replied, given the Hazard he knew, Rising Wolf fully expected him to lash out in some way.
“I’m sorry,” Hazard apologized, and Rising Wolf’s mouth gaped open further. How often in Hazard’s life had he apologized to a woman? “But we can’t go,” Hazard went on gently. “It’s impossible.”
“Because of the mine?” Blaze asked, her tone more understanding. Hazard looked mildly uncomfortable and she had misgivings suddenly about her insistence.
“Yes,” Hazard affirmed, glad of a ready excuse Blaze would accept. He had no intention of exposing his need for this woman to every person in his clan. And if he took her to the summer hunt, she might see it as a charming adventure into an unknown c
ulture, but he, personally, would find it harrowing.
They would both be under constant scrutiny and everyone would know his wanting Blaze transcended casual need. Wanting a white woman that much could diminish his power as chief. And the public flirting and courtship normal and prevalent at the summer camp could cause untold problems. He knew how Blaze responded to the mention of other women in his life, and while he understood, in theory, jealousy was beneath a man’s dignity, in regard to Blaze, dignity be damned.
Furthermore, much of his time would be required for council meetings, and his friends would expect him to join them hunting, gaming, racing, all usual activities enjoyed at the summer encampment. All male activities. It wouldn’t work.
“Perhaps some other time, then.”
“Perhaps,” he noncommittally replied.
Rising Wolf left very soon after breakfast, with a well-laden string of pack ponies.
Blaze only inquired about the summer hunt once more during supper that evening, inquired in very general conversational terms.
Hazard’s reply was curt and negative.
She wouldn’t bring it up again.
Chapter 21
Only minutes after eating, Hazard began buckling on his gun belt.
“Town again?” Blaze asked softly, loath to see him go. Town at night meant Rose, and her jealousy boiled up despite his abstinence last time. And the danger would be constant and very real if Yancy was as worked up as he’d been the day she came up the mountain.
Hazard nodded.
“Rose?” She couldn’t keep herself from asking.
His head came up, his fingers still tying on the leg strap. “Only for your clothes,” he said, his dark glance level. “Jimmy should have been here by now.” He finished securing the holster to his thigh and straightened. “I want you to have clothes to wear.”
“Because of Rising Wolf?”
“Yes,” he said simply.
“It’s not worth a suicidal trip into town.”
“It is to me,” he quietly replied, then smiled a quick, easy grin. “And it’s not suicidal. No one saw me last time and no one will this time either.” He was dressed all in black except for his moccasins, expecting he might have to move faster than boots would permit. Despite his facile explanation to Blaze, he knew small-town rumor may have heard of his last visit, and the possibility of a reception committee was a consideration.
“Wait until Jimmy brings them. Rising Wolf won’t be back again for days.”
“That’s the point. Jimmy hasn’t come. Evidently there’s some problem. Rose knows everything in the county. I’ll find out.”
“I don’t suppose it would do any good to beg and plead?” Blaze winsomely asked, the firelight warm on her fine-boned face.
“I won’t be gone long,” Hazard said, forcibly restraining himself from responding to her delicate beauty and entreaty. “Two or three hours at the most,” he added. Reaching for his rifle, he slung it over one shoulder and then shrugged a leather pack over the other. “Do you want me to bring some books back for you? I know how tedious the days can—”
“Damn you, Hazard. Do I look like I want you to risk your life for some damn books for me to ease the damn tedium?” She’d risen to her feet in her fear, and tears of anxiety and frustration had welled into her eyes. “Do I, damn you, look like I want you to die?” she said in a trembling voice.
Hazard set his rifle down and with his habitual fluid grace strode soundlessly across the narrow room. He looked down at her apprehensive face for a silent moment and then pulled her close. He’d never realized how susceptible he was to her moods. “Don’t cry bia-cara,” he whispered, kissing away her tears. “Don’t cry. I’d be a fool to take any chances when I’ve you to come back to.” He nibbled on her lip, a light teasing gesture. “You know how I need you,” he murmured.
Blaze’s wet, shiny eyes lifted and met his. “Really?”
“Word of honor,” he said and then smiled that heart-stopping smile.
Blaze’s mouth quivered into an answering smile, a sweet rush of joy inundating her senses. “Hurry back,” she whispered to the man who touched her soul.
“I’ll run all the way,” Hazard softly replied.
And he did, setting out in a loping stride that he’d been taught could be sustained from sun to sun.
WHEN he neared the outskirts of Confederate Gulch, where scrub pine and alder bushes marked the perimeters of civilization, he stood motionless for several minutes, his eyes scanning the disreputable hodgepodge of buildings in the shallow basin below. The town was a jumble of houses, stores, streets, timber mine frames, tents, log cabins built to the needs of the miners without regard to plan. But Hazard knew each building, knew where each street meandered, knew most of the inhabitants by sight. Like a scout, his eyes scoured the scene, quartering the area, reassessing it, moving to the next section with a methodical thoroughness that he’d learned, on raiding parties into enemy territory, could mean the difference between living and dying.
Satisfied at last that no one was waiting for him in the immediate vicinity, he carefully moved into the deepest shadows and stealthily made his way to Rose’s.
He saw them first. As he’d expected. Lookouts posted front and back at both entrances to Confederate Gulch’s finest brothel and gambling hall. He didn’t recognize them; they weren’t locals. These had the look of eastern pilgrims. Backtracking, he approached Rose’s from the far side of the block and, assessing the distance to the roof of Malmstrom’s Leather Shop, decided he could just reach the chimney in back with his lariat. The supple rope made from braided buffalo hair was a requisite item on any Absarokee raiding party; since horses were wealth and raiding a means of obtaining them, every Absarokee warrior was an expert with a lariat by ten years of age.
The loop fell perfectly over Malmstrom’s back chimney and, after two strong tugs to determine whether the masonry was sound, Hazard climbed hand over hand up the taut rope to the wood shingled roof. Leaning against the chimney, he recoiled the lariat, then tied it with a slip knot to his belt. He sat quietly for several moments judging the variety of roofs he’d have to traverse, reconnoitering, now that he was above street level, for lookouts posted on any adjacent buildings. Satisfied he was alone, Hazard gripped the shingles through his soft-soled moccasins and carefully moved eastward toward Rose’s establishment six buildings away. The imposing limestone and wrought-iron elegance dominated the far side of the block.
Morality hadn’t arrived yet in Confederate Gulch. That always came later, if the gold lasted long enough for more stable settlement. In the boom months of a new strike, even the first few years, there was no law except miners’ laws, no principles except the concept of “get rich quick,” no formalities for judging right or wrong except the fastest gun or knife; and territorial justice, although in theory prevailing throughout the territory, was a hundred miles away in Virginia City. The leading industries were saloons, gambling houses, dance halls, and places like Rose’s. Later on, the socializing available at Rose’s would be relegated to areas off the main street. But in these frantic new growing times, hers was the biggest structure in Confederate Gulch, splendidly constructed of pink-hued limestone carted overland from Fort Benton.
Rose had always insisted on the very best, ever since she’d been old enough in New Orleans to know what the best was. Although she had been born on the wrong side of the blanket, her mother’s protector had been generous to his beloved mistress and natural daughter. Until her parents’ death in the typhoid epidemic of ’59, Rose had had all the advantages money could buy. But when they died, her father’s family chose not to recognize her, although she had the Longville looks there was no denying: violet eyes, skin as white as magnolias, hair black as night and silky smooth. Unfortunately she was, through her mother’s side, one thirty-second black. To avoid the taint to the Longville name, she’d been abducted one night by a Longville employee, shipped upriver, and sold at Natchez. Her owner died the same night he pu
rchased her and deflowered her—from a slit throat, the papers said. Served him right, Rose had thought, if he didn’t have brains enough not to fall asleep in a drunken stupor after he’d abused his newest slave. She was, of course, wanted for murder, the papers reported, but by that time she was halfway to St. Louis with the contents of her short-lived owner’s money box hidden in her baggage.
She’d set herself up in business, or rather, set up business at St. Louis the summer of ’59; Rose Condieu had never actually worked at her business. She’d had enough money not to have to. Her choice of career was a decision based on the rather limited areas open to women without family who chose not to eke out a living on a subsistence level. And more important, it would offer her the protection of the local law enforcement officials who patronized her establishment as her guests. Southern justice was adamantly malevolent toward slaves who killed their masters, and Rose planned to be careful.
Within a year, her undertaking was the most successful of its kind in St. Louis. But when news of the gold strikes came four years later, the adventure appealed to her. She was still young, only twenty-three years old—and St. Louis was becoming boring.
The wrought-iron second-floor balconies made access from the roof simplicity itself. Hazard dropped down to the railing and then to the balcony floor in one light swinging motion, silent as the dim shadows between Rose’s and Shandling’s Hardware. Easing the balcony’s French doors open, he pulled aside the gold brocade drape a narrow half-inch and looked into the bedchamber. Roxy, lying on her back, was entertaining a customer, but her gaze was wandering, mild boredom evident in her expression. When Hazard stepped into the room, he raised his hand in salute and smiled. The aging businessman, for his wife’s benefit supposedly at a meeting of the Masons that evening, had his back to Hazard and was seriously involved in his own enjoyment. Quietly crossing the room, Hazard reached the door, Roxy watching him with a small smile on her face. Carefully, he opened the door, glanced up and down the hallway, and, seeing no one, blew Roxy a kiss and slipped out of the room. Roxy’s mischievous wink in return had been both suggestive and humorous, and Hazard was still smiling when he entered Rose’s suite three doors down.
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