“Are you hurt?” Ty glanced back at Sonja standing ankle deep in water.
“No.” She lifted her chin a fraction. “I could have managed fine.”
She had the most amazing eyes Ty’d ever seen. Even in the meager light, they seemed to glow with a fiery heat as if from the depths of her soul. Ty touched his fingers to the brim of his hat and spoke over the rain. “I’ve no doubt you could’ve, ma’am, but the storm’s setting in good and proper now. I was simply trying to help.” A grin teased his mouth when she gave him a stubborn thrust of her delicate chin. Inclining his head toward her wagon where one thin flicker of light shown from a lone lantern inside the back entrance, he suggested sternly, “Best be gettin’ back inside now, before you catch your death.”
A mixture of calculated temper and resignation warred behind those violet eyes. He wouldn’t be off in assuming she weighed the options of berating him further for believing her incapable of taking care of herself with gratitude for the assistance. Lucky for him, common sense won out.
With something akin to a nod, she wheeled, moving smooth as a cat to the wagon’s ladder.
Agilely shimming up the wooden rails, she presented Ty with a pleasant view of her trim backside.
She disappeared behind the oil-slicked cover without as much as a civil thank you.
Ty paused with two fingers to the brim of his Stetson. “Good night, ma’am.” Since there wasn’t a soul to hear, he adjusted his Stetson and turned smoothly, coat tails flapping as he trudged toward his own shelter out of the storm. Hopefully, Smitty would have saved him something from supper.
***
Smitty McCready, long-time friend, Ty’s sergeant, and one hell of a cook waited on him. With a flip of the tarp, he extended his hand for Ty. “I heard ya coming. The mess is settin’ in good.”
Ty allowed Smitty to help hoist him over the wagon’s side.
“You brought this one with ya, that's for sure. That’s the truth of that there, Boyo?” The land of Ireland sounded heavy on his tongue in the jib.
Flinging his wet coat on a nearby peg, Ty rubbed his cold hands together and hoped for some feeling in his numb fingers. Pointedly ignoring his friend’s good-natured poke, Ty removed his hat and hung it alongside the slicker. “Got anything to eat?”
“Got some stew I saved for ya. You’d be wantin’ some now, I’d wager. It’s a bad one, this storm.”
Ty nodded as he yanked off one boot and then the other. “She’s a bad one.” He accepted the tin plate Smitty handed him and couldn’t help the grimace. “Followed me six or seven miles before barreling in and dumping a deluge on me this side of Sutter’s pass.” Ty shook water from his head of dark black hair before spooning up a mouthful of Smitty’s stew. “We should get six to eight inches out of her easy,” he said between mouthfuls. “The bridge at Collier’s bluff is out.” Shaking his head in disgust, Ty glanced up at Smitty. “That’ll delay us by at least two days. There’s signs of Indian activity in the same direction. I thought I’d never get back.”
Smitty’s mouth set over the news. “Mother of God, bless us.” Making the sign of the cross across his heart, the cook reached for the St. Christopher’s he wore constantly beneath his flannel shirt. Ty’d saved Smitty’s life in ‘62 and Smitty reciprocated by watching after Ty ever since. The Irishman shook his head woefully. “Can’t catch a break this time out.”
Ty grunted in agreement, more concerned with the stew than further discussion on the matter. Each campaign landed them both in more hot water than either had ever dreamed was possible. His friend was the closest thing to a brother Ty’d had in several years. Long since he’d left home and well after the war drug on, contact with his family had waned. Communication was sparse, almost a year had passed since their last missive. The chunks of potatoes and precious cubes of dried meat tasted so good, Ty’d tipped back his head and drained the broth from the bottom of the metal plate. Sonja would have scolded him for his table manners. The thoughts of her came without warning these days. Shoving the plate in the cook’s direction, Ty asked, “You got any more?”
Spooning up more stew, Smitty glanced at his friend with a quizzical cock to one brow. “Guess you went through the change out there, huh?
Ty nodded between spoonfuls of meat and broth. “Yeah, got in some training from the wolf-god.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
Smitty clutched at the Christopher again. “He gives me the creeps.”
Ty nodded. “That was my first reaction too. He’s a God. They can act pretty much any way they want, I guess.”
Smitty nodded thoughtfully. “He has a heart, you know.” The Irishman paused as Ty flicked him a glance.
“Yeah, I hope so.” Ty didn’t follow but waited because he was sure Smitty would explain.
“There’s nothing but hard times ahead for us.” Smitty’s frown puzzled Ty. What was his friend getting at?
“That a truth we understand. Why bring it up now, Smitty?” Ty cleaned another plate and handed it back to the Irishman.
“The werewolf-god has compassion.” He paused as if he couldn’t get the words to come. “He watches over all of us like the sainted Christopher watched over the church. He’s different. The wariness ebbs when you get to know him. You could do worse to lead you through this time, Ty.” Smitty peered intently at his friend before shrugging and settling the stew plate in a rinse bucket.
“I know what you mean. It’s as if he’s able to calm the fears of everyone with his mere presence. I get the same feeling when he’s around in the man form.”
Smitty nodded and stuffed another piece of soda bread in his mouth before finishing with a grunt in agreement. Leaning back against the side supports of the wagon, Smitty rubbed his full belly. “Ah, that was tasty, if I do say so me self.”
He wagged his finger at Ty. “Now, your woman’s a sassy little thing.” Smitty spooned up another potato surrounded by the thick broth for Ty as he made the observation. “Thinks she’s bigger than she is.” Gesturing with his spoon, he leaned forward. With their faces only a foot apart in the confines of the wagon, he wagged a finger. “Going to get her in trouble, that’s for certain.”
Ty flicked a glance at Smitty and only nodded. The needling concern he’d harbored since beginning this journey, surfaced again with Smitty’s reminder. He fixed his attention on his plate instead, focusing on cleaning the metal with the soda bread in his big hand. “How’s she managing?” His tone grew intrepid as he eyed Smitty from under the brim of his hat.
Smitty cleaned the last of the broth from his plate before smacking his lips and belching for good measure. “She thinks she’s ramrod over this outfit with you gone out scouting.”
Before continuing, Ty wagged his own spoon at his companion. “You’d be right of course. What has she done now? Wore Smoltz down with all her badgering?”
“No, she wants him to take better care of the stock or she’s gonna set them free. I swear, Ty, she’s gonna run the wagon master you hired off if she keeps it up.”
“Set them free?” Ty’s tone took on disbelief and a huff of laugh escaped despite his attempt to control his amazement. “What good does she think that will do?” he asked. When Smitty simply grunted and rubbed his belly, Ty understood Smitty wasn’t far from falling asleep.
A strong gust of wind sent the wagon’s leather flap sailing into the back of the wagon. Droplets of water rained down dampening the pair’s clothes as well as the quiet.
Flicking a glance at his friend, Ty resigned himself to getting nothing more out of Smitty until the morrow. Already, his companion’s eyes grew heavy. In all the years they’d known each other, Ty had never seen anyone who could fall asleep faster than Smitty Macready after a meal. Even with gunfire blazing all around them during a Yankee attack and nothing but hardtack in his belly, Smitty could sleep the sleep of the dead.
Giving the Irishman a nudge with his sock foot, Ty ordered quietly, “Lay your lazy ass down before you pass out where you sit. I ain’
t gonna listen to how it was my fault you got the croup from the night air without a blanket.” When Smitty didn’t respond, Ty reached out and shook his friend’s leg, “Go on. Get in that bed.”
Smitty mumbled something unintelligible and lowered himself to the cot’s surface. Curling his legs, he rolled toward the outer boarding of their rolling home and almost immediately started to snore.
It made Ty smile. Throwing a blanket over the big bear of a fellow who couldn’t hurt a trail mite, Ty tucked the cover over Smitty’s feet and covered his head with the well-worn Confederate Officer’s hat Smitty preferred to a regular cowboy’s Stetson. Ty hoped it would muffle the sound of his friend’s snoring. “Worthless,” Ty muttered good-naturedly to himself before picking up Smitty’s plate along with his own and slipping them both over a nail protruding from the outside of the wagon. No need to worry about washing dishes tonight, he mused.
Settling back on his cot, Ty stretched out to quiet his mind. As the rain pelted the coated canvas cover, Ty ticked off in his mind the things he needed to do the next morning. He’d see Earl Smoltz, the wagon master they’d hired, first thing and report on what he’d found on the trail up ahead. He figured Smoltz would want to get around the downed bridge and to the next layover as soon as possible. Of course, Smoltz meant he’d want Ty to ride point and keep an eye out for trouble.
With his own lids growing heavy, Ty threw the blanket over his legs, checked his revolver, and re-holstering it before laying the belt under the bed, and covered his face with his Stetson.
Dark bottomless pools of Topaz peered defiantly down at him from a face of creamy ivory. A lush, full mouth of dewy pink formed a thin line of irritation. Slender hands fisted on trim hips and a generous bosom heaved in exaggerated frustration. “I can do it myself!” Ty had no doubt she could. Still he would have a talk with Sonja about her ideas for the wagon train in his absence.
The upturned nose of defiance, the swell of a proud bosom, the sway of comely hips all came together with determination to give him a proud picture of his woman. Like an errant siren, her voice came to him. “Tyler, I want you. You’re the only man I’ve ever loved.” The soft twang of southern Pennsylvania dripped liquid smooth and articulate over each word uttered from her lovely mouth. The mere sound of her voice did something to him. Shifting irritated on the cot, he punched the pillow. He couldn’t even enjoy her body spooned close to his tonight. She’d made the decision for proprietary reasons, they’d best keep their distance from each other while they traveled with the train. Besides, Briann and the boys needed protecting.
“Yes, ma’am.” Ty readjusted his swollen hardness straining behind his pants. Thinking of her always brought about the same result. He didn’t think he’d spoken the words aloud, but neither could he be certain he hadn’t. At the moment it didn’t matter. He tried to relax again as his attention wandered to the lit movement of a flouncing skirt, which sent droplets of water flying in a smooth fan. Light bounced off those water droplets and landed at his feet like tiny jewels before disappearing into the torrent of rushing water. The woman’s steadfast determination wrapped him in a gentle swaying dance and her hypnotic spell tugged at him. Never one to waste an opportunity, Ty’s mouth creased in a smile as Sonja’s face filled the darkness.
***
Morning broke clear with only a few whisper-thin clouds to offer testament to the fact last night’s storm had dumped a sizeable amount of water on the wagon train.
Sonja dropped the corner of the flap she’d raised and stretched like a cat in the sun. Smiling to herself, she rubbed her arms in the chill lingering in the early light of dawn. The nights could be long and cold, she mused. Her decision to keep her distance from Ty until they could be away from the people on the wagon train needled her desire. When he returned, they’d have a talk. Hoping for some time alone with him, Sonja rubbed harder at the chill in her blood. When he was gone and a part of her was missing.
Sonja sat up, stretching her arms one more time before finding her cotton slippers and rushing to get her dress from the makeshift closet set up in the corner of her little home-away-from-home as she liked to think of the wagon transporting her sister along with Briann’s boys to Texas.
In the twinkle of an eye, she glanced at the back of the wagon. There stood her late husband as she remembered him. She glanced at the sleeping form of her sister and the children. Still asleep. Turning back to the opening where there was nothing but empty space, Sonja sighed.
Forcing a smile on her face for the looking glass, Sonja shook her head and her curls fell about her face before she shoved them back and wrapped a leather thong about the mass of thick honey gold hair she’d inherited from her mother. She gathered her mane in a twist and wrapped the long length of it in a bun at the nape of her neck. Covering it finally in a lace clutch, she tied off the ends of the string gathering the delicate material around the bun and checked her appearance in the tiny oval looking glass. A pang of longing assailed her as she was reminded of her Ty and how he’d bartered for the looking glass with a traveling salesman. They needed so much more, yet he’d wanted her to have the lovely glass. She missed him so. The ruse was working. Simple refugees from the war headed to Texas and a new start.
Purposely shoving the sensation aside, she slipped the glass back in its silk and down-filled pouch before nestling the pouch in between a petticoat and the only other dress she owned in the wooden box beneath her cot. She had to remember what her goal was and continue to strive for that end.
But the battle of wills between her longing and her determination raged despite her efforts to vanquish the enemy. Sighing heavily, she sat down on the cot and closed her eyes. Praying to a God these days seemed strange. Her new gift probably went against everything the Church stood for, yet Sonja hoped, if God heard her, he understood she needed his help. She rose and tiptoed to the back of the wagon so as not to wake Briann and the boys.
She must be tired. The phenomenon of seeing Robert had occurred several times since they’d left Pennsylvania and again this morning. A weak smile crooked one corner of her mouth at the memory of Robert and how quickly he’d died. Nothing more than her mind playing tricks on her because she was so tired. She wouldn’t mention such nonsense to anybody else. She stepped to the back and turned to go down the ladder. Daylight was burning.
While one booted foot still rested on the wagon stoop, Sonja froze and stared at the dark haired figure of the man bending over her fire pit. He wore a black felt Stetson, a chambray shirt under a leather vest and moccasins up to his knees over his slim fitting pants. He was making coffee!
“What are you doing?” Sonja raised one slim brow. She didn’t wait for an answer, turning instead and stepping nimbly down to the soft earth. Wheeling, she came face to face with Ty. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.” Her hands rested on his chest momentarily before she remembered they were never alone anymore. “Did everything go all right?” She took a back.
His eyes grew cool now and held a hint of humor as he stood directly in front of her now holding a cup of steaming black coffee. “As well as can be expected. How did things go here while I was gone?”
Sonja mentally shook herself. He stood a good head taller than she did. His features held chiseled, angular planes. Looking down the long column of his nose at her, she swore his jaw hardened in defiance. Though she yearned to reach out and wipe the strain from his face, she took another step in retreat. “We’re all fine,” she offered as casually as she could manage before stepping around him.
Taking a potholder, she made a point of adjusting the pot over the fire as if she claimed her fire grate and her coffee pot as her own once more. She examined each item he’d set up over the fire from the grate to the coffee pot to the tongs and the inventory made her feel marginally better. “You made a fire.” Her voice held pleased surprise.
His eyebrow went up in mild sarcasm. With a mocking bow, Ty bent and spoke low for her ears only. “It was the least I could do.”
She did appreciate his help, though to voice her gratitude seemed awkward. He’d cleared out the debris from her fire grate after last night’s storm and started a dung fire. She assumed he’d found her store of fat-lighter, because everything else was still wet. Holding her hands over the flickering flames, she noted the dung fire expertly started with a slim piece of fat-lighter pine. Whether from her box or his friend Smitty’s, she couldn’t say. Mildly put off by his smirk and mocking tone, she lifted her nose past the horizon.
“Thank you for your help.” Without waiting for a reply, Sonja strode past him. His presence was unsettling to her sense of privacy and she needed the distance. Opening her cooking box and removed the oil-skinned bag containing her most prized cooking tool, her black iron skillet, she returned to the warmth of the fire. She bent and lovingly removed the smooth, black skillet from its protective cover. Before she could stand once more, salt meat appeared at the corner of her vision. As if by magic, the meat landed in the pan in several slender slices.
Ty eased the skillet out of her fingers and onto the grid above the cheerful flames.
The salt meat began to sizzle. So did her insides. Hoping for a clandestine glance in his direction, she froze when she found him watching her intently.
Darlings of Paranormal Romance (Anthology) Page 36