“Never you mind, honey,” she said. “You just come with me. There’s nothing she can do for you that I can’t do just as well.” She gave Annie a sidelong glance as she led Morgan past her. “Or better.”
For a second Breckinridge thought Annie was going to go after the brunette, but she settled for sneering and turning her back.
Francesca looked over her shoulder at Breckinridge and said, “You can wait for me, big fella, or one of the other girls will be glad to see you.”
“I’ll, uh, think on it,” Breckinridge said.
“Tonight’s not a night for thinking.”
She was right about that, Breckinridge told himself as he watched Francesca take Morgan into the tent she had come out of a couple of minutes earlier.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t concentrate on the pleasures that might await him while something else was nagging at his mind. He was a little aggravated, and it wasn’t like him to hold his anger inside. He turned away from the tents and looked for Annie.
It wasn’t difficult to find her, even in the shadows of night that were gathering. She had walked over to the parked wagons and now stood there with her left hand resting on a wheel as she looked toward the encampment across the creek.
Breckinridge came up behind her and said, “I want to talk to you.”
She jumped a little and turned around quickly.
“I told you I don’t want anything to do with you,” she said.
“Maybe you don’t, but you’re gonna listen to what I have to say, anyway.”
“The hell I will.” She started to step around him.
Breckinridge reached out and closed his hand around her upper arm. The flesh was soft and warm in his grip, although there was a hint of strength underneath as she tried to pull away. She wasn’t able to do so, of course.
“Damn you,” she said. “Let go of me or I’ll scream.”
“Why should I be worried about that?”
“Because Nicodemus’s men will give you a beating and throw you in the creek to cool off—or drown!”
“You really reckon they’ll have an easy time of that?” Breckinridge asked her. “I’m not hurtin’ you, and I’m not gonna hurt you . . . but if you go to yellin’ and cause a ruckus, somebody will get hurt, and it won’t be just me.”
She glared up at him for a long moment, then blew out an obviously exasperated breath and told him, “Fine. Say whatever it is you want to say, and then leave me alone.”
“All right. What I want to say is . . . I’m not sorry.”
Her forehead creased in a surprised frown as she asked, “What are you talking about?”
“Before, Morgan and me apologized to you for lookin’ at you down that at the swimmin’ hole. But now I’m takin’ it back. I ain’t sorry I looked at you.”
“You’ve got a funny way of mending fences.”
“I’m not tryin’ to mend fences. I’m tryin’ to tell you the truth as straight out as I can. I’m not sorry I looked at you because you’re one of the prettiest gals I’ve ever seen in my whole life, and if anybody in this world deserves to be looked at and admired, it’s you.”
Annie was still frowning, but now she was starting to look confused in the faint lantern light.
“You think I’m . . . that pretty?”
“Well, of course I do! You’re bound to have seen yourself in a lookin’ glass, and I can tell by the way you talk that you ain’t a fool. You know you’re downright beautiful, and I reckon there’s a good chance men have been starin’ at you the way me and Morgan did for a long time.”
“Yes,” Annie said quietly. “They have.”
“So it ain’t nothin’ new to you, and it ain’t anything that should’ve upset you that much.”
Some of the old fire reappeared in her as she said, “You don’t have any right to tell me what makes me upset and what doesn’t.”
“I reckon you’re right about that. I think what’s really botherin’ you is that you wanted that swim to be just you by yourself. You didn’t want anybody else around, so maybe you could forget all about where you were and the things you’ve done. You wanted to feel like there was nobody else in the world except you, even if it was just for a few minutes.”
As Breckinridge spoke, a look of amazement began to appear on Annie’s face. By the time he finished, she was staring at him.
“How . . . how did you know . . . ?” she whispered.
“I’ve felt the same way sometimes,” he said. “So I’m takin’ back my apology for starin’ at you when you were up there naked as a jaybird. Any man drawin’ breath would’ve done the same thing. It’s just natural. But I will say I’m sorry for bustin’ up that private time o’ yours. We didn’t do it on purpose, but I’d just as soon it hadn’t happened the way it did.”
Another moment of silence stretched out between them. Finally, Annie said, “You know you’re still holding my arm, don’t you?”
“Oh,” Breckinridge said. “I reckon I am.”
“You can let go of it now. I promise I won’t scream for help.”
“All right.”
Breckinridge released her arm. He was sort of sad to do so. Holding her like that had felt pretty good.
“What was your name again?” she asked.
“Wallace,” he told her. “Breckinridge Wallace.”
“Well, you seem to be smarter than I gave you credit for, Breckinridge Wallace. I thought you were just a big, dumb trapper.”
Breckinridge grinned as his brawny shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. He said, “I reckon most of the time, that’s a pretty good description of me.”
“And yet you understood why I was angry probably even better than I did.”
“It just seemed to make sense you’d feel that way.”
She took a deep breath and asked, “Do you want to come back to my tent with me, Breckinridge?”
Now he really was on the horns of a dilemma. No fella in his right mind would say no to an invitation like that.
But at the same time, he knew that Morgan was smitten with Annie, too. Of course, given her line of work, it didn’t really make sense for one fella to be jealous of another, but since he and Morgan were such good friends, he figured that was a possibility.
On the other hand, Morgan had gone off with Francesca . . . but only because Annie had told him she didn’t want anything to do with him.
All those thoughts were spinning around and around in Breckinridge’s head, and the harder he tried to sort them out, the dizzier they made him. But Annie was looking up expectantly at him, and he knew he was going to have to give her an answer.
In all his life, he had never been so glad to hear a sudden outburst of angry shouting and the ugly sound of fists slamming against flesh and bone.
Chapter Twenty-six
Annie gasped when the commotion broke out, and Breckinridge swung around sharply toward the sounds of battle. It made sense that the trouble was between Finch’s men and Mahone’s bunch, but Akins was around somewhere and Fulbright was supposed to be watching over the pelts in the canoes, so for all Breck knew, his friends could be in the thick of it.
Annie clutched his arm and asked, “What is that?”
“I aim to find out,” Breckinridge said. He shook free of her and broke into a run toward the creek.
As he turned to follow the bank, he spotted several knots of struggling men up ahead. Some whaled away at each other with fists while others wrestled, kicked, and bit. Angry curses filled the air.
Over to one side, Nicodemus Finch hopped up and down and bawled, “Get ’em, boys, get ’em! Frazzled-out thieves skulkin’ around tryin’ to steal our whiskey!”
Breckinridge didn’t understand that. Mahone had brought along plenty of whiskey of his own; several of his wagons were full of it. He didn’t have any need to steal Finch’s liquor.
On the other hand, Finch couldn’t sell whiskey he didn’t have, and that would ruin his profits. Considering how Finch had burned the keelboat he and Mahone had owned jo
intly, stealing Finch’s whiskey didn’t seem like too underhanded a tactic.
There was just one problem with that, Breckinridge thought as he glanced across the creek.
The uproar had drawn the attention of Mahone and his men, as well as the women who worked for him, and they were all standing near the cannon, watching with interest as the fracas unfolded on the other side of the stream.
If Mahone’s men were over there, Breckinridge asked himself, who was that fighting with Finch’s men?
As he slowed to a trot, he got his answer. One of the battlers had his hat knocked off, and the light from the lanterns revealed a shock of white hair and a weathered face.
Breckinridge recognized the man called Powell from that morning. The others with him had to be the rest of the bunch that had run off the ambushers at the camp on the bluff.
That meant they were friends as far as Breckinridge was concerned, and he wasn’t going to stand by and watch the fight. As he approached, the man trading punches with Powell landed a clean blow to the white-haired man’s face and knocked him to the ground. The man drew back his leg in preparation for launching a kick at the fallen Powell.
Breckinridge lunged forward, grabbed the man’s shoulder, and hauled him around. Breck recognized the startled countenance. The man was Caleb Moffit, who was almost as tall and brawny as he was.
Moffit was off balance, though, and had to take a stumbling step to the side to catch himself. That allowed Breckinridge to catch hold of the front of Moffit’s shirt with his left hand and cock the right to throw a punch.
“Back off,” Breckinridge said. “These fellas ain’t thieves. They’re friends of ours.”
“Then maybe you’re thieves, too!” Moffit yelled. He twisted, trying to get out of Breckinridge’s grasp, and threw a wild, looping left.
Breckinridge ducked his head and let Moffit’s fist shoot past him. Then he threw his right, straight and hard into the other man’s jaw. The powerful blow rocked Moffit’s head back and unhinged his knees. Breck let go of him and allowed him to fall.
There was no time for Breckinridge to feel any satisfaction. The next instant, somebody landed on his back and knocked him forward a couple of steps. An arm went around his neck and closed tight on his throat.
“I got him!” a man yelled triumphantly in his ear. “I got the big bastard!”
Getting Breckinridge Wallace wasn’t exactly the same thing as keeping him, though. Breck reached behind his head and caught hold of the man’s shirt. He bent forward and heaved, and suddenly the man who had leaped on Breck’s back found himself heels over head flying through the air. He let out a frightened wail that was cut short by a huge splash as he landed in the creek.
With that annoyance disposed of, Breckinridge wheeled around in search of another combatant only to receive a hard, knobby-knuckled fist in the face. The man who had hit him started to swing another blow, but Breck blocked it with his forearm. He recognized the man and exclaimed, “Powell, hold on! I’m on your side!”
Powell stopped with his fist drawn back for yet another punch. His eyes widened in surprise.
“Wallace!” he said. “Good Lord! I was just hittin’ whoever was in front of me.”
“No harm done,” Breckinridge said, although he figured there was a good chance his jaw might be a little bruised and sore by the next morning. “Look out behind you!”
Powell twisted around as one of Finch’s men lunged at him swinging a broken branch. Breckinridge stepped past Powell and caught the attacker’s wrist with his left hand, stopping the makeshift club cold. He smashed a right to the man’s face that knocked him down.
“Come on, Wallace!” Powell said. “Back to back!”
That was the way they situated themselves as several more of Finch’s men came at them. With their backs protected that way, they were able to lash out freely at their assailants. Fists smacked into faces and dug deep into bellies. The attackers began to pile up around Breckinridge and Powell.
Pretty soon there was no one left to come at them. The two of them were the only ones left on their feet. Finch’s men and Powell’s companions were all sprawled around, moaning and struggling to get up.
Powell grunted and said, “Looks like that’s the end of the fight.”
“Unless Mr. Finch wants to get in on it himself,” Breckinridge said, glaring at the goat-bearded man.
Finch had stopped yelling and jumping up and down as it became obvious that his men were going to lose this fight. Now he scowled at Breckinridge and said, “Lemme go get my blunderbuss, and I’ll blow holes in the lot of you!”
“Take it easy, old-timer,” Breckinridge advised him. “This ruckus is over.”
“Over! Not as long as these whiskey thieves are tryin’ to ruin me!” Finch pointed a shaking finger at Powell. “Mahone put you up to this, didn’t he? You’re workin’ for Black Tom!”
“I don’t know anybody named Mahone, and my friends and I ain’t whiskey thieves, you crazy old coot,” Powell snapped. “We just came for the damn rendezvous!”
Finch stared at him in apparent disbelief and said, “But I seen you sneakin’ around my whiskey barrels—”
“We weren’t sneaking, just leadin’ our horses into your camp,” Powell insisted. “Then you started yellin’ like a crazy man and jumpin’ up and down.”
That explained what had started the fight, thought Breckinridge. The excitable Nicodemus Finch had allowed his suspicions of his old rival Mahone to run away with themselves, to the point that he saw enemies everywhere, even in the most innocent circumstances.
Breckinridge and Morgan had seen proof of that for themselves a few days earlier when Finch had threatened them and accused them of working for Black Tom Mahone as soon as he laid eyes on them for the first time.
Of course, those circumstances hadn’t been entirely innocent, Breckinridge reminded himself, since the two of them had been staring at Annie’s unclad beauty . . .
“Listen, Mr. Finch,” Breckinridge said, “I can vouch for these fellas. They’re not thieves or troublemakers. In fact, just this mornin’ they helped me and my friends fight off some varmints who were tryin’ to kill us and steal our pelts. They’re lookin’ to get into the fur tradin’ business themselves.” Breck looked over at Powell. “I thought there were more of you than this, though.”
“There are,” the white-haired man replied. “The Colonel sent me and a few of the boys on ahead to scout out the rendezvous. We didn’t know exactly where it was bein’ held.” He grunted. “Now we know. I’m not sure we’re welcome, though.”
On the stream’s other bank, Mahone was close enough to hear what Powell was saying. He called, “That’s because you went to the wrong side of the creek, stranger! Come on over here, and you’ll be more than welcome, by God! We got the best whiskey and the prettiest gals west of St. Louis, too.”
Finch yelled, “That’s a plain damn lie, you shingle-tongued dockwalloper! My whiskey’s better, and there ain’t no prettier gals than mine even in St. Looey! You and your pards just stay here, mister, and I’ll sure set this misunderstandin’ right. I’ll make it up to you, I swear—”
“Settle down, old-timer,” Powell said, sounding a little amused now. “I reckon there’ll be enough business to go around, especially when the Colonel and the rest of the fellas get here tomorrow. I’ll send a rider tomorrow to show them the way.” He turned to Breckinridge. “Wallace, give me a hand gettin’ these boys back on their feet?”
“Sure,” Breckinridge said. He glanced around and didn’t see Annie. He supposed she had given up on him after he ran off like that to plunge into the middle of the fracas.
That was all right. He could use more time to figure out just what he was going to do about her and Dulcy and the way he felt about both of them . . .
Chapter Twenty-seven
Once Breckinridge and Powell had finished helping Powell’s groggy friends stand up, the white-haired man said, “Buy you a drink, Wallace? I reckon it’s th
e least I can do after you pitched in to help like that.”
Since Breckinridge had no money and really no assets other than his share of the pelts that hadn’t been traded yet, he didn’t think it would hurt to take Powell up on the offer. He said, “Sure. I’m much obliged.”
“Over here, or on the other side of the creek?”
“Here’s fine,” Breckinridge said. He didn’t figure there was actually much difference in the whiskey offered by Finch and Mahone. All the fiery stuff was pretty much alike.
They went over to Finch, and Powell said, “Get us a jug, old-timer.”
“I’ll sure do it!” Finch declared. “And to show you I meant what I said about makin’ it up to you for that ruckus, you can have it for . . . let’s say . . . half the reg’lar price.”
“That’s generous of you,” Powell said dryly. Like Breckinridge, he probably knew that Finch would be overcharging the trappers during the rendezvous, so half of that was actually a pretty reasonable price.
Like Mahone’s men on the other side of the creek, Finch’s men had set up a large tent to serve as a makeshift tavern. Inside were rough-hewn tables and benches, and planks laid over whiskey barrels formed a crude bar. The strawberry-blond dove named Siobhan stood behind that bar talking to Akins, who seemed rather entranced by her.
He looked around when Finch led Breckinridge and Powell into the place. A surprised look appeared on his face as he recognized Powell.
“Howdy,” Akins said. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon, friend.”
“We keep runnin’ into each other, all right,” Powell said. He shook hands with Akins. “This frontier seems to be a smaller place than a fella might think.”
Breckinridge had already noticed the same thing in the time he’d been out here. Despite the vast, empty spaces, news of what was going on traveled around fairly fast, and you might encounter the same man more often you’d expect.
“Girl, give these fellas a jug,” Finch told Siobhan.
She frowned and asked, “You mean don’t charge them for it, Nicodemus?”
“No, that ain’t what I—” Finch began hotly. He brought his instinctive response under control and went on, “We’re only chargin’ ’em half-price for it.”
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