“Most men look at every part of me but my face. At least you look right into my eyes, so I guess you’re not so bad.”
Steve tightened his jaw. He didn’t want his mouth hanging open, in case it was trying to. This plain-speaking young woman was buxom and fairly brimming with good health.
“Do you know what folks do around here for fun?” she asked.
“I don’t consider myself an expert on entertainment west of the Mississippi. But my cousin who used to live in Nevada said that folks do pretty much the same sorts of things, maybe pop some corn, play whist, or just sit on the porch talking, if they have a porch.”
“Sure, now, and how does a young lady find out if there’ll be a dance in town sometime soon?”
“I guess I don’t know the answer to that.”
“Well, find out. I might want you to take me to the dance—if there is one,” she added, smiling up at him.
Steve made a point of taking Marianne for a walk almost every evening after that. She usually didn’t have much to say; she just walked along and stole sideways glances at him. Finally one night when they were about to turn around and start back, she slipped into his arms and kissed him.
The kiss was soft and sweet at first, then her tongue surprised him by getting playful. When the kiss ended, he was breathing hard and wondering what to do next. Marianne answered that question for him by going up on tiptoe and kissing him again while guiding his hand to her breast. It was firm and round, and he could feel her heart pounding as hard as his own. The combination of her hot mouth on his and her body pressing tight against him made him dizzy. He ended the kiss with regret.
“You’d better be careful,” he cautioned.
“And what will happen if I’m not?”
“I might forget to stop kissing you,” he said huskily.
“And what would be happening then?” she asked archly.
“Mrs. Kelly’s fine Irish daughter might find herself in a heap of trouble,” he said, peering at her through the dimming light. The sun had gone down, and he was suddenly aware of how alone they were and how dark it was getting.
“And what if she’s not the tiniest bit worried about all this trouble?”
Steve leaned down and kissed her again. Playfulness had turned to passion in her, too. Her mound jutted against his belly and caused a searing shaft of need to suffuse his whole body. Her mouth clung to his while her hands rubbed his chest and stomach. His hands cupped her breasts and moved lower to feel her soft stomach and see if he could touch her between her legs before she stopped him. He slipped his hand there and she groaned, but she didn’t try to shove his hand away. She just ground herself against it as she kissed him.
Steve had very little experience with women, but he knew a clear signal when he felt one. He eased her down onto a grassy place on the riverbank and lifted her skirts. He entered her and hung on. She cried out and bucked wildly against him, almost jarring him loose until he grabbed her buttocks and took control, easing them into a smooth rhythm that quickly brought them both to that moment of frenzy they craved.
Marianne sobbed and panted and laughed. Slowly she settled down and grew quiet. Steve continued to hold her and kiss her face, amazed that she was such an excitable woman. He was flushed with gratitude to her and filled with relief that he had handled himself well enough that she didn’t seem to notice his inexperience.
For several moments they lay together in companionable silence.
“Sure, and I suppose you’ll be wanting to know about the other men,” she said.
“No.” Steve could not imagine wondering about that. What women did when they were away from him was something he’d rather not know about. The reality of making love to a woman was so different from hearing about other people that the two did not seem the same at all.
Marianne squirmed around, then sat up. “Well, there haven’t been all that many. Unless you count heavy flirting. Do you count that?”
“No.” Steve tried to think of some way to stop her, but she seemed determined to talk frankly and aimlessly about a subject no one else ever talked about at all.
“Sure, and that’s probably best,” she said. “I only had one husband, when I was fourteen. My brother, Tom, picked him for me. His name was Joseph, and I think he liked me, but he died in a railroad accident. He was a brakeman. And when the train he was riding hit the rear end of another train, he went flying off the top and landed on his head. Never knew what hit him. I never wanted to marry again…till maybe now…”
Chapter Twenty-Two
With Chane away at the trestle work site, Jennifer had a crisis to deal with almost every day. Men injured themselves. When the wound was bad, she’d get them to Dr. Campbell, but if he was already busy, she nursed them herself.
One of the horses fell on a wrangler and almost killed him. Then an ox stepped on a grader’s foot and broke most of the bones in it. Jennifer discovered Chane had made no provisions for a hospital car, so she directed the Chinese carpenters to convert one of the flatcars into a rolling hospital by building walls with wide windows that opened easily.
She asked endless questions of Dr. Campbell, until she learned enough about the injured men’s needs at least to keep them comfortable. It wasn’t easy getting that information out of Campbell. Even though he was a doctor, he seemed to have no idea how to make another human being comfortable.
By the end of each day, her underarms were sore from swinging around on her crutches. Her injured foot was swollen and aching. And the next day was a repeat of the others. And the next. The men constantly seemed to find new ways to injure themselves.
It was just as well she had things to keep her busy. Chane stayed busy from dawn to dark. Most nights he stayed at the trestle site.
The train crew was being shadowed by a herd of sheep that Chane suspected were shepherded by one of Laurey’s operatives. The man seemed to keep his herd within sight of them at all times.
Against Chane’s implied orders, Jennifer rode out with Tom to meet the shepherd. He was an elderly Basque, obviously a real sheepherder, and spoke no English. He had merry, smiling eyes, though, and Jennifer could see he liked her.
“He’s no threat,” she told Chane.
Chane looked at Tom, who nodded his agreement.
“Glad to hear that.”
It irritated Jennifer that he didn’t even trust her judgment on a simple thing like that. She started to turn away, saw that his thumb was black and swollen, and stopped.
“What happened to your thumb?”
“I hit it with a hammer.”
“Did you do anything for it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, mimicking Tinkersley’s Texas accent. “As soon as I noticed, I stopped hitting it with the hammer.”
“I mean besides that.”
“That was all it needed. Soon as I stopped hitting it, it felt a lot better.”
“Let me look at it.”
“You’ve got enough men to worry about,” he said, standing up and stalking out of the Pullman coach.
Sometimes sheep strayed into camp, and the old man came after them and stayed a few minutes to chat with Chane’s Basque workmen. Chane had hired a dozen men from the Pyrenees. They lived lustily, worked hard, and all seemed to have the merry, smiling eyes of the old sheepherder Jennie liked. She decided the old man stayed nearby because he was lonely.
To keep limber, Jennifer practiced ballet stretches an hour a day. Her foot ached so much she couldn’t manage more than that. Occasionally, accompanied by Tom Tinkersley, she rode one of Chane’s blooded mares around the campsite and up the Santa Fe Trail.
At first Tinkersley was polite, reserved, and watchful—the perfect employee.
“Where is your family?” Jennifer asked.
“Texas.”
“What part? Or is Texas just one small town?”
He grinned, and sunlight flashed off a gold filling in his canine tooth. “You could ride for a week and still be in Texas,” he said pro
udly. “My folks live in a little town called Tinkersley. My father owns the place.”
“Sounds like the perfect arrangement. Why’d you leave?”
“Because my father owns the place,” he said, grinning ruefully. His skin was tanned to a smooth teak color. His eyes sparkled with humor, and she felt a small stirring when he smiled. She hoped it was because he reminded her so much of Peter.
“Do you have any brothers and sisters?” Jennifer continued, curious.
“Two of each.”
“And what are they doing?”
“My father wants to be governor someday. My sisters and brothers are raising the next generation of voters right this minute.”
Jennifer laughed. “And you are the laggard.”
“Got that right. My father hates it, but at least he hasn’t sent any Texas Rangers after me yet.”
They rode together every day, and Tinkersley remained thoughtful and respectful, no matter how much they talked or how intimately. He was a man of depth and spirit. She knew why he’d had to leave his home and make his own mark. He could never be satisfied trudging along in his father’s footsteps.
Jennifer quickly fell in love with Colorado. She adjusted to the altitude—and the cold nights, and she had not expected such beautiful days. The railroad followed the Purgatoire River, called the Picketwire by locals. The land they traveled was as flat as a tabletop for the most part, but because they followed the river, they had to span a number of creeks that emptied into it.
The second week, a man poured blasting powder into a hole, set the fuse, and waited two minutes for it to go off. When it didn’t, he used a spoon to try to get it out of the hole and blew off three fingers and part of his hand. Jennifer helped Dr. Campbell cut away the unsavable parts of the hand.
Later, she overheard a man telling another man that Chane had told Beaver Targle that from now on Chane himself would handle the explosives. The men laughed. “Hell, I had a beautiful wife like that, you wouldn’t catch me within a mile of a stick of dynamite. Kincaid must be crazy.”
The other man nodded. “Works like it, don’t he?”
The next time Chane came to visit, Jennifer confronted him. “I heard you’re going to handle all the explosives from now on.”
“That’s right.”
He didn’t look like he wanted to discuss it, but Jennifer persisted. “Isn’t that an odd thing to do? The most valuable man in the crew doing the most dangerous work?”
“All men are equal when it comes to dying.”
“Well, they aren’t all equally expendable when it comes to getting this railroad built. If something happens to you, they’ll all be out of work, your grandfather will lose a great deal of money, and I’ll…” Unable to finish that thought, her voice trailed off.
“Dynamite isn’t magic, Jennie. It works a certain way, and if you respect the rules, it’s no more dangerous than a bar of soap.”
Chane couldn’t be swayed. Early next morning he left for the trestle site. About noon the sound of a man cursing loudly and creatively brought her out onto the observation deck. A short, fat man in a black bowler hat drove up in what looked like a converted hearse. He whipped his team of splay-backed mules and yelled at them, but the mules held their ground. Finally, the man set the brake and climbed down. He walked around to the back and banged on the window.
“Might as well get down, girls. I think we’re here.”
The curtain on the back parted and three girls with brightly made-up faces peered out. One opened the glass door and stood on the step. “This ain’t no place.” She was plump and redheaded, and her low-necked blouse strained against her ample bosom.
“Well, it might not be New York City, but it is someplace,” he corrected her.
“What the Sam Hill are we supposed to do here?”
“Earn your keep. What do you usually do?”
It was clear they had not noticed Jennifer on the observation deck.
“Among these railroaders?”
“They got money, don’t they? They ain’t exactly fighting off the women, are they?”
“I can smell ’em from here.”
He sniffed the air. “Let Hessie Mae go first. She’s got that sinus infection that keeps her from smelling anything.”
“Y’all talkin’ ’bout me?” A slim, blond, blue-eyed girl stepped out of the hearse and looked around.
Jennifer felt an instant kinship with the girl, whose eyes sparkled with determination and mischief.
“He was saying you should try your luck first, ’cause you’ve got that sinus infection.”
Hessie Mae shook her head in chagrin. “I may not be able to smell much, but I got better sense than to take on a bunch of men who ain’t had a bath since La Junta.”
“Aw, they probably bathed a couple of times since then.”
“You felt that water when we crossed the last creek. You couldn’t get me into that water, and these men don’t look determined enough to take a bath for no reason. Let ’em find out we’re here first.”
“Excuse me,” Jennifer said.
Four sets of startled eyes turned her way.
The man took off his hat. His merry little eyes were half hidden by fat cheeks. “How do, ma’am.”
“Are you looking for someone?”
Two of the girls giggled.
“Just thought we’d stop and offer our services,” he said.
“I can easily see what services the young women could offer,” Jennifer said, “but what can you do?”
The man flushed red as a persimmon. “Why, ma’am, I’m surprised you’d say such a thing to me. Why, I’ve taken care of these girls until they think of me as their father. I’ve protected them and nursed them and—”
“I see. How long do you intend to stay?”
One of the girls snickered. “As long as the money holds out, I reckon.”
“Are you in charge here, ma’am?”
“I’m Mrs. Kincaid. My husband owns the company building the railroad.”
The man bowed low, sweeping his top hat almost to the ground. “Bunker Hilton at your service, ma’am.”
Jennifer hesitated. She wished Chane were here. She didn’t feel at all sure of herself, but she had the strong conviction that she had to protect the men in Chane’s employ. Anything less would be a betrayal of the women and children who had seen these men off. “I don’t suppose we can keep you away, but I can insist that your women be checked by our doctor before they get anywhere near our men.”
Bunker Hilton blinked. A look of outrage mottled his features. “Why, madame, I certainly cannot see subjecting these fine young ladies to the indignity of an examination by a stranger.”
“Fine. Then I’ll have my husband bring his shotgun and escort you on your way.”
The girls looked at one another.
Bunker Hilton sputtered. Never in his life had he had such a blunt conversation with a woman who looked like a lady. Ladies did not acknowledge sporting women, much less ask them to submit to a medical examination. His usual penchant for easy conversation failed him completely.
A man carrying a sack of potatoes walked by on his way to the cook’s car. “Ezra,” Jennifer called out to him.
“Harumph,” Hilton interrupted quickly. “That won’t be necessary, madame. Where do we see this…doctor?”
Jennifer sent Ezra to fetch the doctor. Campbell trotted from the infirmary car, a surprised look on his face. She explained as delicately as she could what she wanted him to do. Campbell stifled the grin that threatened to break his composure and led the girls back to the infirmary. Bunker Hilton followed with the mules.
Jennifer didn’t know if she’d done the right thing, but she knew that if she ran the girls off, they’d camp a half mile away and do whatever they wanted. It seemed best to control them, so every man in the company wouldn’t disappear over there every night. They might freeze to death on their way back to the sleeping quarters.
Three days passed before she saw
Chane again. He rode up to the Pullman coach and got down stiffly. She wondered if someone had told him about her handling of Bunker, but she couldn’t tell by looking at him. She decided to wait until he’d eaten dinner and relaxed for a few minutes.
“I made dinner,” she said, suddenly unsure of herself.
“I didn’t know you could cook.”
“Well, maybe I can’t. Will you take a chance and eat with me?”
“I have a few things to do first.”
“It’s almost ready.”
Chane came back alone. Jennifer had set the table. While he looked at a newspaper someone had brought from La Junta, she put the food into serving dishes.
“It’s ready.”
Chane moved to the table. “Looks…fine,” he said.
He cut into the meat she had cooked. Blood ran into his plate. Without blinking, he cut off a bite of the meat, put it into his mouth, and started to chew. And kept chewing.
“Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing,” he said around the wad of meat in his jaw. He chewed for a while and finally swallowed.
“It’s not done, is it?”
“It’s fine,” he lied.
Jennifer felt miserable. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get anything cooked the right amount of time.
“I cooked it until it had blisters,” she said.
“Blisters?”
“See?” She turned the meat over and showed him the underside.
“About how long?”
“At least twenty-five or thirty minutes.”
“Well, Jennie. I think this is a roast. I don’t know anything about cooking, but I remember my mother used to cook a roast for a few hours.”
“Hours? I didn’t start dinner until five-thirty.”
Forlorn, Jennifer pushed the near-raw roast aside. In silence they ate over-boiled potatoes and soggy vegetables. Finally, she could stand it no longer. “I had a problem while you were gone.”
“Oh?”
“I’m not sure I handled it right.”
“Oh?”
“Well, a man and three young…women came into camp the other day.”
The Lady and the Robber Baron Page 33