Prairie Moon

by Maggie Osborne

  That wasn’t the case with Della. There were no uncomfortable silences between them. When a period of silence did occur, it felt right, and he didn’t notice except in retrospect. She didn’t complain about sleeping on the ground as he would have expected from a woman. Far from resenting any campsite tasks, she demanded to have her own chores. She was interested in weather changes, but didn’t grouse about the heat or a sudden chill.

  Instead of presenting a difficulty, Della amused, engaged, and stimulated his mind. Sometimes he relaxed enough to realize how much he enjoyed her company. In fact, he preferred her company to that of anyone else he could think of. Usually he left it at that. But sometimes a warning sounded deep in his thoughts. Nothing good could come from his admiration of Della Ward’s qualities or the pleasure he took in her company. Or from his growing desire.

  When he returned to the campsite, she was settled in her bedroll, her face buried in her pillow. Quietly, he poured the last of the coffee and seated himself where he could watch the firelight shining in the curves of her braid.

  “Are you still mad?” he asked in a voice low enough that he wouldn’t wake her if she were already asleep.

  “Yes.”

  The anger went deep, with tendrils rooted in the past.

  “I’m not mad at you, though.”

  That’s what he’d wanted to hear. “Good night, then.”

  He could remember each time she had touched him or that he had touched her. A man didn’t forget an electric shock that branded every nerve ending.

  When the embers burned low and the night was dark enough to hide an ox, he let himself explore the memory of holding her in his arms and carrying her down to the creek. It had seemed the right thing to do, and she hadn’t resisted.

  But what he thought about tonight was the firm yet soft curve of her body against his chest, the scent of her skin and hair, the weight of her in his arms. He remembered wanting her then as much as he wanted her now.

  Grinding his teeth, he raked a hand through his hair and cursed the trick of fate that attracted a man to absolutely the wrong woman.

  If there was anything to Della’s theory about dreams being messages, he hoped his dreams would tell him how to cope with futile emotions and with the firestorm that would erupt when he told her the truth.

  Chapter 11

  “We’ve passed several towns,” Cameron commented, riding up beside her. Bold wanted to dance today, picking up his front feet, prancing sideways.

  “I’ve noticed.”

  Della had glimpsed clusters of trees and buildings in the distance. Even from miles away, the breeze occasionally brought scents of civilization—cooking smells, stable odors, the fruity pungence of burning rubbish.

  “I promised you a hotel room whenever you wanted it.”

  She hadn’t forgotten. Whenever she spotted a town or noticed the small cotton farms in outlying areas, she asked herself if she was ready to disrupt the routines they’d established. Unexpectedly the answer was no. She actually enjoyed the long days in the saddle and she didn’t mind sleeping on the ground. It was pleasant working side by side with Cameron to set up their camp, nice to wear her hair swinging in a braid and not to care that her riding skirt and shirtwaist were wrinkled and soiled.

  “We’re running low on a few perishables. If you’re ready for a soft mattress and a real bath, we could put in for the night at Rocas. I’ve stayed there before. The hotel is better than most out here on the plains.”

  “Rocas. That means rocks in Spanish, doesn’t it?” The eastern edge of the Rocky Mountains had appeared on the western horizon, and they were seeing occasional rock outcroppings among the scrub and grasses. “You know, Cameron, it occurs to me that you were wildly optimistic about the time required to reach Santa Fe. You predicted three weeks.”

  “Or more.”

  “A lot more.” They’d been on the trail for over two weeks and hadn’t yet reached the mountains that would certainly slow them further. “I don’t mind,” Della decided, thinking about it. “I wasn’t doing anything anyway. And traveling on the plains, living outside, this is an adventure I never thought I’d have.”

  She liked to think about telling Claire of this experience and wished she had brought paper and pen. A trip journal would help her remember the amazing nights when the stars curved down to the horizon as if they were pasted inside a black bowl. She didn’t want to forget the smell of the horses and a campfire and bacon crackling and popping in the skillet. And she wanted to remember the wind in the grass, and whirling eddies of sand.

  Of course she didn’t intend to have a conversation with Claire. All she wanted to do was look at her daughter. Nevertheless, it was pleasant to think about describing the trip, a nice daydream to imagine Claire listening with rapt admiration.

  “All right, let’s stay the night at Rocas. I’d like to purchase writing materials when we buy supplies.” Della had never kept a journal before because she’d had nothing interesting to write. Now she did, thanks to Cameron. When they rode into Rocas, she cast a sharp eye around the town, considering what to describe and what to leave out of her new journal.

  Hot, dusty, and small, those were the words that came to mind. The Grande Hotel was by far the largest building fronting the reddish dirt road that served as Main Street. The other stores and cantinas featured false fronts that had weathered in the sun and wind to the point that it was difficult to determine if the buildings had ever been painted.

  Cameron led them down the center of Main, nodding here and there to folks who came to doorways to see who rode past. At the stables he shook hands with a man he introduced as Robert Allen.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”

  Now Della wished she’d taken a moment to pin up her braid and put on the clean shirtwaist she’d been holding in reserve. While Cameron talked to Mr. Allen, she followed the scent of frying tortillas to the door of the stables and looked down the street. The hotel had a shaded porch and three stories with lace curtains at the windows.

  Suddenly she longed for a bath as powerfully as she had ever longed for anything. She wanted the dust and grime off her skin and out of her hair. Wanted to smell of lemon or lavender instead of horse and sweat. And she desperately wanted to slide between crisp, clean sheets on a bed as soft as down.

  “You want your usual room, Mr. Cameron?” The hotel clerk eyed Della over the wire rims of his glasses.

  “I do. Put Mrs. Ward in the room next to mine.”

  The clerk licked the end of his pencil then laboriously wrote Della’s name in his register. “Will you want a tub in the room or will you be going to the barber-and-bath?”

  When Cameron raised an eyebrow, Della whispered, “A tub in the room.” She hadn’t stayed in a hotel since her honeymoon, a lifetime ago. It didn’t feel decent to be standing in the lobby with a man, renting a bedroom for the night.

  “Take a tub to the lady’s room,” Cameron instructed, “and bring her coffee with sugar and some of Sophia’s pastries. We’ll both be sending out laundry. And we’ll have supper in the hotel dining room at six o’clock.”

  Della didn’t know much about hotels, but she knew hotels generally accommodated a class of people accustomed to polite society. The knowledge made her acutely aware of her disheveled appearance and embarrassed by it. She should have thought ahead and freshened herself before riding into town.

  Leaning to Cameron, she said in a low voice, “Six o’clock is scandalously early.”

  “That’s when you and I usually eat.”

  She wondered what the clerk made of that comment and felt the heat rush to her cheeks. “We’re in town now. Eight o’clock would be a more acceptable hour to dine.”

  Cameron gazed down at her with an amused expression. “Acceptable to whom?”

  Who was there in this small, dusty town whose opinion mattered enough that she was willing to wait an additional two hours and listen to her stomach growl? She, who hadn’t followed fashion since th
e Yankees marched on Atlanta? Who was traveling alone and un-chaperoned with a hard, virile man who could make her pulse race with a glance?

  Sighing, she rubbed her forehead. “Sometimes I am a very foolish woman.”

  Cameron paid the clerk and flipped a coin to a boy to take their saddlebags to their rooms. He walked as far as the staircase with her. “If you want an eight o’clock dinner, I’ll tell the clerk.”

  “An eight o’clock dinner is the past. A six o’clock supper is the here and now. It’s odd how things you haven’t thought about in years can jump out of nowhere and blindside you.” She ran her palm along the bannister. “I’d be pleased to have supper at six.”

  “You’re off the range and in the big city, ma’am. The hour may be early, but you’ll be dining, not merely eating. So wear your going-out-to-dine dress.”

  “Cameron, I’m feeling foolish enough. A clean skirt and jacket should be adequate.” She would have started up the staircase, but he caught her arm and led her to a set of double doors opening off the small lobby. Wordlessly he opened the doors.

  Della stared inside and her mouth fell open. There were eight tables in the Grande Hotel dining room, all dressed in white linen and gleaming with heavy silver. A young girl who looked part Indian was placing wild asters in the vases on each table. A boy who might have been her brother paused in polishing silver candlesticks and looked up curiously.

  Cameron closed the doors and consulted his pocket watch. “It’s one o’clock now. I’ll knock on your door at a quarter to six. That should give you time to do whatever you need and have a nap if you like.”

  “This isn’t what I expected,” Della said, tilting her head to look up at him. Usually Cameron shaved first thing, but this morning he hadn’t. The beginnings of a dark beard shadowed his jaw. Just when she believed she had him figured out, he did or said something that surprised her.

  Her comment must have pleased him because he smiled. “If you need anything, pull the rope by the door and the clerk will send someone upstairs.”

  James Cameron never fully relaxed, but he was more at ease on the range away from people. Now, as he turned toward the hotel’s outside doors, Della watched the mask of vigilance descend. His eyes narrowed, his lips thinned. The lines deepened beside his mouth and eyes, and his palms brushed the butts of the pistols on his hips. A cold gaze and unyielding stride made him about as approachable as a cougar.

  A shiver of apprehension and attraction tightened Della’s stomach. There was something about a dangerous man that stirred secret longings in women, like the seduction of the fire for the moth.

  Weak-kneed, she clasped the bannister and climbed the stairs.

  Rocas was a familiar stopover. Those who wanted to shake the hand of a gunslinger had done so. Those who wanted to make a reputation killing a gunslinger hadn’t yet worked up their nerve.

  “But they will. You know that.”

  Cameron and Shot Markly sat in two of the tin tubs in Gadd’s Barber and Bath House. They wore their hats to stop sweat from rolling into their eyes. On the table between the tubs was a large ashtray for the cigars they enjoyed, and two glasses of whisky alongside the bottle Shot had purchased. A shotgun and a pistol lay within easy reach.

  Cameron blew a smoke ring and watched it float toward the dark ceiling. “No one lives forever.”

  “I thought maybe you’d changed your attitude, seeing ’s how you’ve taken up traveling with ladies. You going to tell me who she is? The way I hear it, your lady friend is going to clean up real nice.”

  “Have you heard how much your cattle fetched? Or has the drive ended yet?”

  “Changing the subject, huh?” Shot grinned. “The boys are about a day out of Abilene, letting the beaves graze and fatten up a bit before they run them in to the railhead. The price per head is a little less than last year, but I think you’ll be pleased with the return on your investment.”

  Eight years ago, Cameron had helped Shot Markly and his wife get their ranch started. At the time he was just giving a hand to a man he liked and believed in; he hadn’t thought of the money as an investment. But every year a deposit appeared at Cameron’s bank, marked “return on investment.”

  Money didn’t matter much to a man with nothing and no one to spend it on. A decade had passed since he’d given any real thought to finances. But earlier this afternoon, when he’d checked into the Grande, Cameron had felt a spark of gratitude that he could afford to take Della Ward to Atlanta and bring her home again without thinking about the cost. For the first time, he had someone to spend money on, and he liked that. He looked forward to Santa Fe, a town large enough to have shops filled with foo-fa-raws that would interest a woman.

  “Laura will kill me if I don’t invite you and your mystery lady to the ranch for supper.”

  Cameron blew another smoke ring, then sipped the whisky. “I already reserved a table at the hotel.”

  His lady. When had his name last been linked to that of a woman? Must have been before the war. A Miss Hamilton, if he recalled correctly. A laughing, dark-eyed beauty with less brains than a cocker spaniel. The Union army had provided him a natural escape and saved him from an awkward situation with the very persistent Miss Hamilton and her determined mother.

  “Tell me about the new sheriff,” he said, deflecting another question about Della. “I stopped by the jailhouse before coming here. I have a sense that Sheriff Bannon is still settling in.”

  “He’s good at moving strangers out. I imagine his first question to you was, When are you leaving? He’s less good keeping a rein on the local troublemakers.” Shot frowned. “Maybe he’s still working out the pecking order, not sure of connections or who’s protected under whose wing. But he shows promise.”

  “Anybody I should know about?”

  “Naw. There’s a few hotheads. Nothing you haven’t handled before. You’ll be gone before they know you were here.”

  That wasn’t likely. He’d been in town only a few hours, yet word of his arrival had reached Shot, and Shot had known about Della and that Cameron was still riding Bold. It wouldn’t surprise him to learn that Shot knew the brand of saddle soap he carried in his bags. News traveled fast in small towns.

  When Arnie the barber came into the tub room to drape a hot towel around Cameron’s face, Shot rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “A bath, a shave, a haircut, and a private supper. So when’s the wedding?”

  “Go to hell, Markly.”

  Shot laughed and lolled back in the tub. “Just remember. If you don’t invite us, Laura will find you and skin you alive.”

  “Damn it, there’s not going to be any wedding.”

  He pulled the towel over his mouth and retreated into silence, his good mood soured.

  It was irritating and silly to be so nervous about having supper with a man, especially a man she knew as well as she knew Cameron. Besides, they’d been eating supper together for well over a month. But tonight was the first time they’d dressed for the event, and the first time they’d gone out. These differences created a sense of excitement and anticipation.

  Della glanced at the mantle clock, then frowned into the bureau mirror and tugged at her bangs. She’d held the crimping iron too long over the lamp chimney, and consequently had singed her bangs. She’d snipped off the singed ends and now her bangs were shorter than she would have liked. Damn.

  But the rest of her hair was clean and shiny and piled in a looping arrangement atop her head. Rather elegant, she thought, wishing she had an ornament to tuck into the mass of curls. She’d tugged loose a strand or two to sort of waft near her cheeks in front of her good jet earrings. A nice softening touch.

  Standing back, she studied the molded fit of the jacket to the suit she planned to wear on the train. She’d dressed up her train ensemble with her jet brooch and evening heels, but the suit was far from a fancy dine-out gown. She didn’t own a dine-out gown. Her train suit would have to do.

  When a knock sounded at her door, she pi
nched her cheeks and bit her lips for color. After her sunburn had peeled—and thank heaven the peeling had ended—her skin had turned light gold. Well, what did it matter? She hadn’t worried about milk-white skin in years.

  “Oh my.” Her breath caught when she opened the door. Cameron stood before her in evening dress, freshly barbered and smelling of expensive bay rum. Her heart knocked against her rib cage and her nervousness increased. A few hours ago she couldn’t have imagined him wearing anything other than his wrinkled duster and travel-worn riding clothes. Now he was a dangerous man wearing evening dress as if he’d never worn anything else. James Cameron was a man who could seduce a woman with a single glance. And break her heart with the second glance.

  “You look beautiful,” he said softly, his gaze traveling from her hair to her mouth.

  They studied each other in uncomfortable silence, awkward with the formally dressed strangers they had become. Then they moved at the same time and bumped into each other.

  “Excuse me.”

  “No, it was my fault.” Stepping aside, he waved her into the corridor, then offered his arm.

  “When I bumped into you . . .” She looked over her shoulder to be certain there was no one in the hallway to overhear. “Are you wearing a pistol under your jacket?”

  “Of course.”

  Della didn’t think she would ever get accustomed to the idea of wearing arms to the table. What seemed natural at a campfire impressed her as eccentric in a hotel as refined as the Grande.

  “Do you really think you need a weapon in the hotel’s dining room? Surely they don’t serve meat so rare that you have to shoot it before you can eat it.” Lifting her skirts, she descended the staircase on his arm, pleasantly aware that they made a handsome couple.

  Smiling, Cameron led her into the dining room, and the maître d’ guided them to a table at the back of the room, where he seated Della.