Megan

by Linda Lael Miller

  “Sit down,” Lil commanded. “You make me nervous, fussing like that, and that water will boil on its own, without you hovering.”

  Amused, Megan sat. She liked Lil for her distinctive personality and bold—the townswomen would probably have said brazen—ways.

  “Now,” Lil went on when Megan was settled, “about the Primrose Playhouse. Everybody needs entertainment, and I think we’ll get a lot of trade from the men down at Fort Grant. Too, the town’s been growing ever since the fire. With more and more women coming to live here all the time, it seems to me there’s call for culture.”

  Megan wondered about Lil’s past, how such an obviously intelligent woman could have ended up running not just a saloon but a thriving brothel as well. Of course, she would never ask her, though she was dying to do just that. “Where would you get the performers? You’d want a good deal of variety, to keep people coming back.”

  Lil waved one elegantly gloved hand, making light of the matter even before she spoke. “Virginia City is full of singers and the like, and we can bring magicians up from San Francisco.”

  There it was again, the word we. Megan decided it was time to speak up. “Mr. Stratton and I have decided to get married,” she said.

  Lil’s smile was slow and thoughtful. “Well, now,” she said. “Some of my girls will be sorry to hear that.”

  Megan willed herself not to blush, although she couldn’t be sure she’d succeeded without bolting for a mirror, and she wasn’t about to do that. She had no idea how to respond to Lil’s statement.

  Lil, unlike Megan, was not at a loss for words. She gave a sigh worthy of the stage and said, “I suppose that means you won’t be interested in becoming my partner.”

  Megan’s mouth dropped open; she promptly closed it again. “Your partner?” The kettle began to sing on the stovetop, but she paid it no mind. Listening to Diamond Lil’s proposal, she forgot all about the tea she’d been planning to brew and the laundry still hanging down by the creek.

  Chapter

  7

  Megan was in a distracted state of mind after Lil took her leave and so did not remember the laundry until she heard raindrops spattering on the roof and rumbling at the windows. By the time she reached the edge of the creek, the skies had opened wide, and her hair and clothes were immediately drenched as she rushed from one bush and tree to another, bunching sheets and shirts and other articles into her arms.

  Augustus, eager to help, dashed around her in circles, barking in delighted panic. Unable to see past the small mountain of sodden wash clutched in her arms, she tripped over him and pitched headlong into the grass. Unsure whether this was a game or a genuine tragedy, the dog yipped and licked her face a couple of times as she sat up.

  She laughed at the absurdity of the scene, and so Webb found her, sitting in the rain, surrounded by clothes and linens, her head thrown back and her dress sodden. Alone, he swung down off his horse and came toward her, frowning at first and then joining in her laughter.

  He hoisted her to her feet with one hand, then helped her gather the scattered wash. By the time they reached the shelter of the house, they were as wet as if they’d both tumbled into the creek with their clothes on. They dumped the laundry onto the table and then stood there staring at each other, until Webb came to his senses and went to build a fire on the hearth. Augustus was close at hand, always ready to be helpful.

  “Go and change,” Webb said without looking at Megan. “You’ll catch your death. Besides, the sight of you soaked to the skin is not having a wholesome effect on my character.”

  She hesitated, then went into her room. When she came out twenty minutes later, her hair was down, and she was wearing one of her poorly altered dresses, a pink-and-green striped silk affair entirely unsuited to Primrose Creek.

  Webb, stripped to the waist, was drying himself with a towel. His expression was rueful as he took in the stage gown, and there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Well,” he said, “that’s hardly an improvement, now, is it?”

  Megan’s attention was riveted to the clearly defined muscles of Webb’s shoulders, chest, and belly, and she raised her eyes to his face only by supreme effort. She was just about to tell him he was a fine one to talk when a modicum of reason overtook her, and she somehow managed to hold her tongue.

  “Come over here and stand by the fire,” he said. “You’re shivering.” He was accustomed to giving orders, and Megan was not accustomed to taking them but this time she obeyed, drawn by the warmth of the blaze on the hearth and by Webb himself.

  She went to stand next to him. “So are you,” she contrived to say.

  “I’ll survive,” he said. With that observation, he walked away from Megan and mounted the stairs, and she felt bereft, watching him go.

  He returned promptly, wearing a dry shirt—not yet buttoned—and carrying a blanket. He wrapped her in the latter, pulled it snugly around her.

  It was back, that rare tenderness that would be her undoing if she didn’t guard against it. She tried to step away, but she couldn’t, because Webb was still holding on to the blanket, and she was cosseted inside it.

  “Where is everybody?” she asked, because she was adrift, and if she didn’t find a way back to solid, ordinary ground very soon, she was surely lost. She was referring to Jesse and the others, though for the life of her she couldn’t have clarified the fact. Her tongue felt thick, and her head was swimming.

  Fortunately, Webb knew what she was talking about, and it gave her some comfort that he looked as unsettled as she felt. “I left the men with the herd,” he said. “Cattle tend to get spooked in weather like this.”

  “Oh,” she said, casting a glance toward the stove. “I’ve made stew for supper—”

  “I’ll take it out to them in the buckboard,” he said.

  So he was leaving, going back to the range, where he and the men had been gathering strays. His imminent departure was at once a good thing and a bad one, from Megan’s viewpoint. She was a moral person, if somewhat misguided at times, and yet she did not trust herself to be alone with Webb for much longer. Getting drenched in a rainstorm had only added to his appeal, and there was a heat burning low in her middle that had nothing whatsoever to do with the fire crackling nearby.

  “You’re dripping,” she said.

  He still hadn’t let go of the blanket, but he looked down. “So I am,” he agreed.

  Just then, Augustus gave himself a mighty shake and sprayed them both with dog-scented water. Startled, they stepped apart, and that was probably fortunate, given the way Megan’s heart was thudding in her chest. She turned hurriedly, removed the blanket, and knelt to bundle Augustus into the folds.

  The animal shuddered and licked her face gratefully, and she embraced him. When she looked up at Webb, she saw an expression in his eyes that made her breath lodge like a spike in the back of her throat. For what seemed like an eternity, the two of them just stared at each other, Webb standing in front of the fireplace, Megan down on one knee, both arms around the shivering dog. Finally, Webb broke the spell by thrusting himself into motion, buttoning his shirt as he went.

  “I’d better get the wagon hitched and head back out to the range,” he said.

  Megan could only nod.

  Fifteen minutes later, after she’d poured some of the rabbit stew into a smaller kettle for her supper and Augustus’s, Webb returned from the barn, looking like a gunslinger in his long, dark coat, his hat dripping rainwater. He collected the large pot of stew, along with the utensils and enamel bowls Megan had gathered, and left again.

  Megan felt desolate, but she had the laundry, as well as Augustus and the chicks, to occupy her mind. She got busy, draping sheets and garments over chairs, along the stair rail, from the mantels in other parts of the house. When she’d finished, she added a few sticks of wood to the fire Webb had built, fetched her sewing basket, and drew up a chair. There she sat, stitching one of Webb’s new shirts together, while the rain continued to fall.


  *

  The range seemed especially barren to Webb that afternoon as he drove the buckboard back to the herd, his horse tied behind, to join the men guarding the steaming, bawling cattle. There were around a hundred head, by his count—fewer than he’d hoped for, he had to admit—and he knew the army would buy all the beef he wanted to sell, at a respectable profit. At the moment, though, he couldn’t seem to take much interest in the prospect, because his mind was full of Megan McQuarry.

  Megan, wet and laughing in the grass. Megan, with her red hair down around her waist and her curves showing through her dress. Megan, wrapping a dog in a blanket as tenderly as if he’d been a child. It was, he reflected, a damn good thing he had responsibilities, because, if he hadn’t, he would have been back home, doing his best to seduce the woman. He had an idea she wouldn’t have resisted overmuch.

  The sight of Jesse riding toward him at a trot came as a merciful distraction. He had few illusions where the boy was concerned—growing up under Tom Sr.’s roof had taken its toll on all three of his sons—but Jesse was still the only kid brother Webb had, and he cared about him.

  “The marshal’s out here checking the brands on your cattle,” Jesse said, making no effort to disguise the contempt he felt for men who wore badges. “What do you make of that?”

  Webb didn’t see any reason to point out that Zachary would soon be family, at least by marriage. Jesse and the others surely knew he meant to marry Megan, but he felt no real inclination to elaborate. “It’s his job,” Webb said. The rain was a steady drizzle now, and cold. “There’s been a lot of rustling in this country lately.”

  Jesse looked a mite pale and a bit on the edgy side, too. “He thinks you’re a thief?”

  “I doubt it,” Webb answered, bringing the buckboard to a stop near the lean-to that sheltered the campfire. While he was unloading the kettle of rabbit stew, Zachary rode up, mounted on a fine-looking dapple-gray stallion. Like Webb, he wore a long duster, and he was soaked all the same.

  He greeted Webb with a nod, ignoring Jesse’s pointed scowl.

  “Afternoon, Webb,” he said.

  “Zachary,” Webb replied. “My brother tells me you’re looking at brands. Nasty day for it. Jesse, I guess you’ve met the marshal.”

  Jesse didn’t speak, though he pulled his hat down low against the rain and nodded an acknowledgment.

  Zachary grinned and swung down from the saddle, tugging off his leather gloves as he approached, and extended a hand to Webb. Webb responded with a firm grip.

  “My wife’s going to plague me three ways from Sunday if I don’t come home with news of Megan,” the lawman said. “How is she?”

  Webb’s attention was temporarily diverted to his brother, who was still sitting there with his horse reined in, gawking. The kid’s ears were practically dragging on the ground. “You got something to do?” Webb inquired.

  Jesse opened his mouth, thought better of whatever reply he’d been going to make, wheeled his horse around, and headed back to the herd.

  Zachary took off his hat and thrust a hand through his damp hair. “Something tells me that kid hasn’t got much use for me,” he observed with a grin.

  Webb sighed and indicated the campfire, where a pot of coffee was bubbling away. “Give him time. He’s got some problems trusting folks, and not without reason.”

  Zachary looked after the boy, his expression serious but otherwise unreadable, but he was smiling again when he met Webb’s gaze. “About Megan,” he prompted.

  Webb couldn’t help giving a broad grin; just hearing her name made him feel as if the sun had come out, even though the rain was coming down as steadily as ever and the sky promised nothing but more of the same. “She’s well.” He wanted to boast that she’d accepted his marriage proposal, but the news wasn’t his to break, so he would wait until Megan had spoken with her sisters. “Holding her own.”

  Zachary laughed. “Never met a McQuarry who couldn’t do that,” he said.

  The conversation lagged a little, so Webb threw in “Fair cook, too,” for good measure.

  “Now, that”—Zachary nodded his thanks as Webb handed him a cup of hot, bitter trail coffee—“is not necessarily a family trait. If Caney ever lassos Malcolm Hicks, I’ll probably have to take up cooking myself. When it comes to getting a tasty meal on the table, my Christy’s real good at other things.”

  Webb chuckled, sipping his own coffee and watching out of the corner of his eye while his men kept the nervous herd corralled as best they could. So far, there hadn’t been any thunder to speak of, or lightning, either, but there was an ominous charge in the air, and Webb felt as edgy as his cattle. “Nonsense. The women in your family can do anything they put their minds to, and you know it.”

  Zachary gave a rueful, long-suffering sigh, but the happiness in his eyes was unmistakable. “I reckon that’s so,” he admitted.

  “You having any luck tracking rustlers?” Webb asked.

  Zachary heaved another sigh, and this one was somber. “Nope. Dan Fletcher lost twenty head just a week ago, though, and Pete Dennehy is out a whole string of pack mules.” He shook his head. “I’ll be damned if I can get a bead on this bunch.”

  It was discouraging, just thinking about the other ranchers’ bad fortune. Twenty head of cattle were more than most folks could spare and still meet their bank notes and stay in business. Dennehy was known for the mules he raised for sale to the railroad and Western Union, and this would set him back, maybe even ruin him. Same with the others. “Sounds like you need some help,” he said.

  Zachary chuckled, without humor, and blew on his coffee in an attempt to cool it down a little. “Every man in this country seems to be working either in the mines or on the railroad. Not many looking to be deputized for two dollars a day.”

  Webb was sympathetic. It was pure luck that he’d managed to hire the men he needed to work the ranch. “I might be able to spare a few days,” he said. “Maybe bring along a couple of the hands.”

  Zachary lowered his coffee mug and narrowed his eyes, not in suspicion but in disbelief. “You’d do that?”

  “We’re neighbors,” Webb said. “Friends, I hope. When do you want to ride?”

  Zachary studied the sky. “Doesn’t look like the weather’s going to clear up right away, but we’d better head out in the morning all the same. You sure you want to do this?”

  “Yep,” Webb replied, never one to waste words.

  “Damn,” Zachary marveled, grinning again.

  “I guess that means you’re pleased,” Webb said.

  “Damn!” Zachary repeated, even more cheerfully this time, and then he shook Webb’s hand again with vigor. “Much obliged, Webb.”

  Webb nodded. His reasons for joining the posse weren’t entirely altruistic, of course, and Zachary must have known that. Rustlers were a threat to all ranchers, and the smart ones would want to take hold and do something before things got worse.

  The two men agreed to meet at Zachary’s office in town first thing the next morning, and then Zachary tossed away the last of his coffee—with some relief, Webb thought wryly—and mounted up. He gave the brim of his hat a tug in farewell and then rode away.

  Webb figured he’d stood around jawing long enough. He finished his own coffee—he wasn’t real particular about the flavor, it was the jolt he liked—untied his horse from the back of the buckboard, and headed out to the herd. The sky was as heavy as before, and some of its weight had settled into the pit of his stomach.

  *

  Webb and the others had been gone two days when, in response to Megan’s invitation, sent by way of Bridget’s eldest child, Noah, her sisters arrived for a visit.

  “You’re getting married!” Christy cried when the announcement had been made, raising her hands to her cheeks, her gray eyes alight. She and Skye and Bridget had left their assorted children in Caney’s care, and they were undaunted by the continuing rain.

  “Yes,” Megan said, as seriously, as primly, as she
could.

  “I’ll be horn-swoggled,” Bridget put in, removing her damp bonnet and shaking it by its ties before hanging it on a hat peg next to the door. “It didn’t take Webb long to get the idea.”

  Skye beamed as she shrugged out of her cloak. Although Jake Vigil had had his financial problems in the past, especially after both his house and mill were burned in the fire that had swept through Primrose Creek two years before, he was a prosperous man, and Skye’s well-made clothes reflected his success. Megan had yet to visit their house, which stood several miles downstream on the opposite side of the water; she’d had her hands full just keeping up with her work. “I’m so happy for you,” Skye said, kissing Megan’s cheek.

  Skye, like Bridget and Christy, was gloriously happy in her marriage, and she seemed to assume that the same fate awaited Megan. Megan hoped she was right.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Soon, with the fire blazing, the chicks chirping, and Augustus snoozing on the hearth, the four sisters were settled at the table, cups of tea steaming before them.

  “When’s the wedding?” Bridget wanted to know.

  “Have you set a date?” Christy asked at the same time. She seemed a little on edge—she usually was when Zachary was away—but she glowed with well-being.

  “I wanted to speak with all of you first, before we went ahead,” she said, looking from one to another. “I have your blessings, don’t I?”

  “Of course,” Bridget said.

  “We hoped this would happen,” Christy added.

  “What will you wear?” Skye asked, her brown eyes glowing with excitement.

  Before Megan could reply to any of them, Bridget spoke again. “Gus just got in a length of lovely ivory silk,” she announced. “I have some lace trim in my sewing basket—”

  “And I have some pearls from a gown of Mama’s,” Christy added eagerly, but after a beat she flushed slightly and lowered her eyes. Jenny McQuarry, the woman Christy and Megan had believed to be their mother, had never seemed to bear them any particular affection. Now, they understood her a little better.