by Gini Rifkin
“You’re paying me to make these decisions,” he pointed out. “And I won’t travel these next few days with you questioning or defying my every move. If you don’t trust me, we’re though before we begin. You’re in untamed territory now, lady, not New York City or London. And whether you’re willing to admit it or not, I get the impression you’re gonna need looking after.”
Her stubborn independence fought hand to hand with his male logic, the need to survive winning out. “Oh all right. I’ll leave the details up to you. But stop calling me lady.”
“Why? You are one, aren’t you?”
He gave her a quick once over, then turned and left without a word.
Mouth open in a most unladylike expression, she watched him amble away. Egad, had he already seen through her veil of deception? There seemed to be more to this man than portrayed by his easy going, laid-back style—such as razor-sharp instincts and unexpected insight. If the jig was up, reestablishing her prim and proper status could prove to be a challenge. Not falling prey to the animal attraction she felt for him, might prove an even greater task.
She better have two baked potatoes, they’d looked small.
Chapter Two
Leadville, Colorado
Morning came, cold and dreary, with a wall of fog hanging low over the surrounding mountains, but nothing dampened Jubel Stokes’ cheerful mood.
“I’m sorry, Miss Conner, I simply cannot advance you any more money.” He gave a sympathetic smile, eying the young woman standing before him. “You already owe the Company a tidy sum.” He took one of her hands, and patted it. “Just can’t seem to get ahead, is that it? I know it’s a hard life for a single gal. Perhaps we could make other arrangements regarding your payments.”
The nervous young woman licked her lips, and he imagined the delicate pink tongue titillating various parts of his body. He wanted this one badly. In these parts, a chance at a virgin didn’t come around very often.
Like so many others, this disillusioned female had come to Leadville to get rich, the promise of silver shining in her eyes. He’d hired her on the spot to work the gambling hall, then sat back and watched as she fell into debt. To keep her here, he gave her one free meal a day, but the high prices he charged at the Company store quickly ate up her paycheck and any tips she might make. Offering promises of future raises, he let her borrow against her wages. The pay increases were slow in coming, of course, and now she bent to his mercy.
“Don’t look so distressed, my dove. I’ll treat you gently. It’s only one night, and the slate will be wiped clean. Take a bath before you come up, and wash your hair. A clean dress would be nice too.”
“I don’t have the money for any of those things. You know that.”
Retrieving a silver coin from his pocket, he pressed it into the hand still trapped in his. She tried to pull away. He tightened his grip around her wrist, and with a sad little mewling sound, her fingers curled around the money.
“I guess now you’ll be spending the entire weekend to cover the additional deficit. You might enjoy it,” he added. “Maybe even wish to make it a permanent arrangement.”
“Never.” She wrenched free of his hold, tears wetting her cheeks.
“Never say never,” he cautioned, with a laugh. “Eight o’clock tomorrow evening. Don’t be late.”
Reaching around her, he leaned in close, his body brushing against hers. Then he opened the door and all but pushed her out of his private office and into the hallway. Too bad time didn’t allow for a little daytime dalliance. But duty called, with never-ending business clamoring for his attention. Besides, anticipation made the prize even more exciting.
Strutting over to the ornate full-length mirror wedged in the corner of the room, he smoothed back his hair and tugged his vest into place. What a life. It had been a long dirty haul, but he’d made it to the top. Everyone in Leadville knew Jubel Stokes, and everyone did his bidding. He ran The Silver Moon, the biggest gambling hall in Lake County—he ran the town.
Finished preening, and unable to waylay a self-satisfied smile, he settled into the chair behind his big oak desk. A mound of letters and papers awaiting his perusal littered the top of the impressive piece of furniture. He’d barely made a dent in the pile when a knock interrupted his concentration.
“Yes, yes,” he groused. “What is it? Come in.”
“Boss, have you read Mr. Devlon’s letter yet? We only got one barrel of the good stuff left.”
“No, Snake Eyes, I haven’t. And I never will if people like you keep interrupting me. Stand in one place,” he ordered. “No use distributing the dirt you’re laden with around the entire room.”
“Sorry, boss, I been unloading supplies.”
“Obviously.”
The burly man’s real name was Billy Simms, but he had lost so much money playing craps, everyone called him Snake Eyes. He did odd jobs around The Silver Moon, and his skills included being handy with a gun and a hammer. While Snake Eyes tried not to fidget, Jubel ferreted out the referred to missive.
“Dammit,” he ranted, banging his fist down on the desk. Snake Eyes gave a startled jump. “Devlon becomes a bigger profiteer with each passing day.” He crushed the letter and threw it across the room. “Now he wants a thousand dollars to haul nine barrels of whiskey up to us. Hell in a hand basket, for such a fee, a man could ship the same amount of goods from New York City to San Francisco by way of Cape Horn. Once the rail-line is restored, that greedy little varmint will sing a different tune.”
Gaining his feet, he paced the room.
“Until then,” he relented, halting before the desk, the words bitter on his tongue, “the blackguard has us by the short hairs.” He filled out and signed an invoice then tossed it to the waiting man. “See to it, Snake Eyes, and close the door on your way out.”
Sometimes you had to spend money to make money. A gambling hall without whiskey would soon become an empty building. He slouched back in his chair, lit a cigar, and mulled over the situation. Ever since enlarging and updating The Silver Moon, he’d had a bit of a cash-flow problem. Still, he should be able to recoup the investment within a few months. Leadville, the second largest town in Colorado, teemed with opportunities if you had a bit of business savvy. But being organized like a cow town, the damn place made it a challenge to run any type of trade. There were fifteen warehouses crammed full with merchandise. Unfortunately finding a particular shipment took more effort than mining the silver one needed to pay for it.
Why not put the order in now and worry about paying for it later? With the current backlog of clutter at the depots, his ledger should be in the black by the time the bill came due. No need to worry. He had a knack for coming out on top—except for one time.
At the memory, his stomach soured and he belched. Getting even for that particular bit of treachery haunted his thoughts and dreams. And the revenge he craved, locked and chained in the dark recesses of his mind, still waited to be unleashed. What a pity he would never find satisfaction. After all, it happened many miles away in what seemed a lifetime ago.
****
Although clouds obscured the distant mountains, Denver remained clear, the pre-dawn air crisp and cool. Britania stood in front of the Palace Hotel—two trunks, one carpetbag, and a large purse piled at her feet.
Still keeping up appearances, she paid to have the heavy trunks lugged from the boarding house over to the hotel. Last night, she sold the third trunk for a tidy profit, and defying the realm of possibilities, had crammed all the possessions it contained into the allotted two. She prayed she wouldn’t need anything from either one until she arrived in Leadville. Once opened, it seemed doubtful they would withstand the stress of being re-closed.
True to his word, Mr. James showed up just as the sun peeked over the horizon, and when she spied the conveyance he’d purchased, she reached for the porch rail on the veranda to steady herself. Visions of a covered coach with soft velvet seats disappeared, replaced by the appalling sight of t
he transport coming her way. A high-walled buckboard, the bed half-full of provisions, bounced down the street, coming to a halt before her.
“Mornin’, Miss Rule.”
The man’s cheerful tone assaulted her ears, and his jovial attitude increased her shock and anger. Setting the brake, he swung down, and reached for her carpetbag.
“Where on God’s green earth did you find such a hideous contraption? I refuse to ride in that bone jarring relic.”
Straightening to his full height, he glared down at her. “Is that a fact? Then I hope your shoes are well soled, because it’s this or nothing. It’s the cheapest rig available that looked like it might make the trip without losing a wheel.”
Feeling contrite and totally out of her element, she swallowed back a follow-up retort. He’d complied with her request for saving money, although admitting the fact took more than she could give credence to at the moment. When would she learn to temper her expectations based on her fluctuating solvency? Things were not working out the way she imagined or planned, and the trauma of being kicked out of her homeland and traveling this great distance had taken a toll on her as nothing ever had.
“Well,” he prompted.
There he stood, sturdy as an oak, looking so sure of himself. How easy it would be to surrender, letting him make all the decisions, especially since he thought himself so good at it. And no doubt, he excelled at traveling in the wilderness. The small scar on his upper left cheek and the apparent strength in his big hands seemed to indicate he’d done more in his lifetime than sit at the gaming tables. Obviously, the best choice would be to graciously concede. It wouldn’t do to begin their journey on a sour note.
“I’m sorry,” she admitted. “I appreciate your concern for my budget.”
Not giving her an opportunity to elaborate further, he began loading her luggage. As he struggled to heave the trunks on board, his face turned red and a vein stood out in his neck. She smiled, enjoying a moment of secret gratification.
“Hellfire woman. You got rocks in these bags?”
“You said two trunks, not how much they should weigh, and I’ll not part with another item so you needn’t bother asking.”
“I should’ve gotten bigger horses,” he muttered, resettling his hat on his head. “Well, get on up here,” he ordered, climbing onto the seat, “and let’s be on our way.”
Arms folded across her chest, she held her ground. If he expected her to scramble onboard like a cabin boy scurrying over a ship’s ratlines, he had another think coming. With a disbelieving shake of his head, he clambered down, came around the wagon, and handed her up onto the seat.
“Are you comfortable now, your majesty?” he asked, as he rejoined her from the other side.
“Yes. Quite. Thank you.”
One small victory for her side in regards to keeping up appearances. Civilized manners were important, regardless of ones geographic location or station in life. Unfortunately, the glow of triumph quickly faded as Cody whipped the team into action
The sudden forward momentum flung her back against the seat, the length of her spine smacking painfully against the hard wood. She let out a yelp, grabbing her bonnet just before it took flight. Tightening the ribbons under her chin, she held on for dear life. A cocky grin twitched at the corners of Mr. James’ mouth.
After stopping to pay off her outstanding credit, they left the last vestiges of the town. How eerie to watch “civilization” disappear by increment with each mile that rolled by. Then the sun burned off the cloud-cover on the horizon, and the sight of the Rocky Mountains eclipsed all other thought.
For as far as the eye could see, the massive snow-covered peaks reared up like a row of unspoken challenges, with Leadville a mere spec hidden somewhere within the immense vista. Thankfully, they were not crossing over the mountains—a feat which seemed impossible. They were only going up into them. Yet today, from where she sat, that endeavor seemed equally unattainable.
Traveling by rail would have been less daunting, but a rockslide had put the rail-line out of commission for heaven knew how long. And as the stage had been discontinued when the Denver and Rio Grande started up, making the trek overland by her own devices had been the only option. Already late fall, if she didn’t strike out for Leadville now, seasonal limitations would force her to wait until spring-thaw. She must go immediately, the Tarot said so. And although the cards had gotten her into trouble a time or two, they had yet to fail her in the long run.
When they reached what she’d been told were foothills, the jagged white peaks were obscured from view, their mesmerizing affect broken. No longer distracted by their intimidating presence, she relaxed, taking in the immediate scenery, so different from where she once lived. From a distance, the terrain appeared almost soft, comprised of furry brown mounds and green velvet vales. Up close, the plants were scraggly and tough, just like this part of the country, just like the people who dared to live here.
The wind picked up, precluding the necessity or ability for conversation, which suited her just fine. She hadn’t a clue as to what to talk about with this man. He seemed equally accepting of the silence.
Eventually, the road became less compliant, the atmosphere darker as the landscape transformed into a dense pine forest dotted with groups of unfamiliar white-barked trees quaking with golden leaves. As they bounced along, the temperature dropped, and she drew her shawl closer and hunkered down as best she could.
When lunchtime finally came, it consisted of bread and cheese, and a downturned mood she couldn’t shake. And when they stopped for the night, she felt so miserable, she didn’t care if she ate or drank or even lived to see another day. But she did need to find something soft upon which to sit before she fell into a dead sleep.
Stumbling from the wagon-of-death, she headed toward the barely more forgiving, but at least unmoving downed tree trunk. Uttering a weary moan she sat, then quickly stood back up.
“Oooh. Ouch. Saints preserve me,” she mumbled, rubbing her backside.
“Poor petite belle. Je suis dèsolè,” he said, with a grin. “Is our western transportation too hard for your English derriere?”
“What?” For a moment, she thought her ears had suffered injury as well. “Wherever did you learn to speak French?” she asked, ignoring his reference to an intimate part of her body.
“Montreal,” he responded, unharnessing the horses and staking them for the night. “I called it home for a spell.”
“You’re full of surprises, Mr. James.”
“No more than you, I imagine,” he tossed over his shoulder. “You can call me Cody,” he added, unloading pots and pans.
She watched him work, wishing to do as he suggested, but familiarity breeds contempt, and she already felt on shaky ground with this man, no use upping the ante unnecessarily. More importantly, if they were to maintain their fragile employer-employee relationship, it wouldn’t do to start calling one another by their Christian names.
“I think for now,” she insisted, “Mr. James seems more appropriate.” Yet despite her decision, the name Cody echoed in her mind, and she yearned to wrap her tongue around it and say it out loud.
He stared at her as if she were a curiosity, or an escapee from Bedlam. She didn’t care. What he thought didn’t matter, as long as he believed her to be a lady, one who should be treated with respected.
“I reckon that’s up to you.” He shook his head. “I suggest we put our bedrolls close together, over here.”
“I most certainly will not.” How utterly disappointing, he sounded like every other man. The burgeoning image of chivalry she’d harbored for him evaporated. “And I suggest you keep your distance unless you’d like to feel the effects of this.”
Hiking up her skirt on the right side, she retrieved the derringer from its thigh holster. Cody appeared impressed with the show of leg, but not with the weaponry. Stifling a laugh, he reached into the back of the buckboard, and brought out his six-shooter, three times the size of her li
ttle pistol.
“I think you’re outclassed as far as firepower, but I admire your spirit. Sleep wherever you like.” Retrieving a holster, he strapped it around his hips, nestled the gun into place, and went to build a fire.
Rendered mute and still clutching the little derringer, her hand hanging limp at her side, she watched him kick a few good-sized stones into a semblance of a circle. With such ease, he’d reduced her to stunned silence, and once again she felt the proper fool.
He bent to gather deadwood, his movements fluid and easy, his shoulders so broad and strong beneath the long duster he’d donned. Soon a small but inviting blaze flickered with bright light and welcoming warmth. With Mr. James so occupied, she dared to replace the derringer, envying his adaptability. He seemed so at home in the wilderness.
Accustomed to the hustle and bustle of London Town, she knew how to navigate the backstreets and boroughs, knew where to find the least expensive food, and who would trade a Tarot reading for a faggot of wood and matches. But here, she literally played the babe in the woods. Already she missed clean hands, and clothes sans nettles, twigs, and smudges of dirt, not to mention her few friends. Loneliness rode her hard. Fighting the painful lump forming in the back of her throat, Britania thought she might never feel at home again.
“I’m going to try my luck at catching some mountain whitefish,” he informed her, snatching up a fishing pole. His statement took her by surprise, and before she realized what he’d said or could comment back he went striding off into the woods.
After he’d gone, a deathly quiet surrounded her, and she swore she could hear her heart beating. Left on her own in the wilderness for the first time in her life, she panicked, turning first one way and then the other. All the trees looked the same, and she couldn’t remember exactly which way he’d gone. There went any chance of going to find him if need be. What if he never came back? But how absurd. Of course he would return—unless something untoward happened and he died.
She nearly jumped out of her skin as a raucous blue and white bird swooped in and landed on a fallen log. He hopped and clambered about, squawking and jabbering as if taunting her for her foolish thoughts.