Lady Lavender

by Lynna Banning

  She studied the worn-out farm implement and smiled. That man was remarkable. Formidable. Wash Halliday paid attention to her with more than his body. A shiver of remembered pleasure danced into her belly. Most of all she remembered the small things: his hands in her hair, his low voice murmuring her name, his tongue stroking her intimate places. Never had she experienced such a night!

  All at once she wanted to weep. She gazed up into the dazzling blue morning sky, wondering about the man who had moved her so much. How did a man know when to thrust hard and when to take the time to draw things out?

  Mon Dieu, she wanted it all over again!

  She gazed down at the plow resting against the bunkhouse wall. And how did he know this was exactly what she wanted to find on this glorious morning?

  She pivoted and reentered the bunkhouse. “Manette? Wake up, chou-chou. After breakfast we must ride into town.”

  Carl Ness, the mercantile owner, gave Jeanne a friendly smile. She had feared the townspeople at first, even Monsieur Ness. She struggled to speak their language, and they thought her prickly and unfriendly. She was not unfriendly; she was so frightened she could scarcely swallow. But that she could never admit.

  Now Carl shook his graying head. “No, Miz Nicolet, haven’t seen Colonel Halliday this morning. Might be he’s still sleepin’ over at Mrs. Rose’s boardinghouse where he stays. I heard there was some kinda fracas out at Jensens’ barn last night.”

  “Ah, no, he cannot be sleep—” She bit her tongue just in time. Could he have left her bed and crawled into his own to get some real rest? Her cheeks grew warm.

  “About your lavender wreaths, Miz Nicolet?”

  “Ah, yes. I will bring my wreaths this afternoon.”

  “And some more of them sachets?” he said eagerly. “My women customers keep askin’ about them, and about the Lavender Lady, too. Seems they can’t get enough of your pretty little bags of good-smelling herbs, especially in this heat.”

  Jeanne spun toward the front door. “I will bring some,” she called over her shoulder.

  Outside on the walkway in front of the mercantile Manette was perched in a bent rocking chair, watching a ladybug crawl over her palm. “I saw Monsieur Rooney,” she said without moving her uplifted arm. “He went inside that place over there.” She pointed to the Golden Partridge saloon. “Bon. But we shall not bother him. Come, I have work to do.”

  In the livery stable Jeanne gathered up an armload of lavender fronds from the towering wagon load they had brought in two days ago and carefully laid them in an empty chickenfeed sack Carl Ness had given her. She calculated quickly in her head. There would be enough for five or six wreaths plus six or eight small sachet bags.

  “And now,” she announced to Manette, “we need some ribbon and…”

  But Manette was down on her hands and knees scrabbling through the straw looking for crawling things. Jeanne shivered at the thought of her daughter’s precious Spider Box. She watched her daughter’s diligent search and realized that she must keep herself busy today, as well. So busy she would have no time to think about last night.

  She sucked in a long breath. His scent still clung to her skin, and in her belly a flock of birds soared up into flight.

  She studied Manette’s busy fingers among the weeds. Very busy. She must make at least seven wreaths. Perhaps even eight.

  They paid a quick visit to Verena Forester, the dressmaker, where Jeanne bargained for lengths of ribbon, a warm coat for Manette and enough brushed sateen for the sachet bags. At last she hoisted the sack of lavender up behind her mare and set off leading the animal with Manette’s hand clasped in hers. Her daughter’s other hand was closed tight over some six-legged treasure. Jeanne let out a long sigh.

  Soon…very soon, she and Manette would once more be safe and snug in a house of their own. She straightened her shoulders, adjusted her drooping straw sunhat and marched forward. To accomplish that she would have to work very hard.

  C’est la vie. She had worked hard before.

  Wash reined his horse to a halt at his first glimpse of the huge black steam engine puffing along on the last three hundred yards of newly laid iron track. Not bad, he thought. From Colville to Smoke River in five days; that meant laying four miles of track a day. Better than the last set of shovel-monkeys Sykes had sent—twenty-five burly Irish farmers fresh off the boat.

  A whistle screeched and a low rumbling began in the three-deck rolling bunkhouse pushed by the train engine. At least fifty men with long black pigtails and odd dishpan-shaped hats swarmed out of the structure. Most of them looked like they weighed around one hundred pounds with their floppy blue trousers soaking wet.

  These were his graders? His track-laying crew? He groaned in disbelief.

  The head man sped forward on skinny legs, keeping well clear of General’s hooves. Wash nodded at the man. “Sykes sent you Celestials after all, I see.”

  Snapping black eyes peered up at him. “Good yes, boss. Sykes very smart man. Chinese man work good, you will see.” He stuck out a thin arm. “My name Sam.”

  Wash grunted, then reached down to clasp the man’s small hand. He sure as hell would see. Sykes spoke highly of the Chinese work gangs that were beginning to grade the Central Pacific roadbed out of Sacramento. These were the best pick-and-shovel men, so Sykes had insisted. Talk was cheap. The work would tell the story. And if Sykes was wrong, he’d send his Chinese back so fast their pigtails would stand on end.

  More diminutive men poured out of the three-tier bunkhouse, forming up in groups behind a single pajama-clad leader. Wash was mildly surprised at the level of organization.

  “Have these men had breakfast?”

  Sam nodded and grinned. “Oh, yes, boss. Eat very early, before sunup.”

  “Where’s your dining car?”

  “No need. Cook work at stove inside.” Sam tipped his head toward the bunkhouse. “All eat, all finished. We work now.” He grinned up at Wash, his dark, intelligent eyes shining.

  Maybe Sykes knew a thing or two after all. He dismounted and handed the reins to a young Chinese boy who darted forward.

  “Lin will take good care of horse,” Sam assured him. “Now, we go to work?”

  “Yeah, now we go to work. I need a roadbed cleared into that valley ahead. The far end has a fair grade, but this end’s pretty level, mostly brush, some trees.” He paused to gauge the Chinese man’s reaction.

  Sam’s head hadn’t stopped nodding since Wash opened his mouth. “All understood, boss. We clear land.”

  He barked an order in Chinese to the assembled workers and they raced for the flat railcar behind the bunkhouse and returned with shovels and picks, mauls and axes. Again they formed themselves into ranks.

  Sam was beaming. “Ready, boss?”

  Wash had to smile. If they were half as efficient at clearing a six-foot-wide swath through Green Valley as they were lining up, they’d be worth their weight in gold.

  “Let’s go, then.”

  The Chinese followed him at a respectful distance until he reached the valley edge, where he stopped and pointed. “Start right here.”

  Sam shouted something at the men behind him and they split into teams of four and fell on the brush like locusts.

  Sam saluted smartly. “Reach flat part of valley by supper, boss.”

  Like hell, Wash thought. But as the morning wore on, the teams of men cut and hacked with more energy than he’d ever seen in a grading crew. They looked like blue-trousered ants chewing their way down the gentle slope.

  Only one gentle grade would be needed on this end of the valley, he judged. The route out at the other end of the valley would be much tougher. He’d figure out the gradients tonight after supper at the boardinghouse. Tonight he’d get Rooney to stay out at MacAllister’s place and watch over Jeanne.

  You coward, a voice whispered. Right. He didn’t trust himself anywhere near her.

  He jerked his attention to a tall pine being cut up into short log lengths. Fir
ewood for the cook, he figured.

  Wash helped stack the logs, then watched in disbelief as the small wiry men wielding axes split them in half, then in half again so four chunks of firewood fell away from the axe like an opening flower.

  He offered to help stack the logs, but Sam waved him off as a small wooden hand cart appeared, pulled by two Chinese. They trundled the cart right up to the canyon edge and before Wash could blink it was loaded up to the rim with wood and rolling back toward the bunkhouse.

  Wash wondered if Sykes knew how little direction his Celestials needed once they understood the task at hand. Of course he knew; that’s why he owned a railroad that was already making money.

  At noon, the Chinese cook rang the bunkhouse dinner gong. Wash had no taste for the strange vegetables the crew ate, so he retrieved his horse from the boy, Lin, rode back into town and headed for the hotel dining room. Mrs. Rose served breakfast and supper at the boardinghouse, but no midday meal.

  Rita at the hotel dining room greeted him with a broad smile. “Haven’t seen you in a while, Colonel.”

  “Been busy, Rita.”

  “Mmm-hmm, I heard. Got the Lavender Lady out of Green Valley, didja?”

  “Yep, I did.” Out of the frying pan and straight into the fire. He took a table next to the window and fidgeted until the white-aproned waitress brought some coffee.

  Rita poured his cup full and plopped down a sugar bowl. “I hear the Lavender Lady’s got no place to live now. Is that true?”

  Wash bent his head over the steaming cup. “Pretty much, yeah. She’s camping out at MacAllister’s bunkhouse right now. I feel pretty rotten about—”

  “Wouldn’t worry too much, Colonel. Look there.” Rita tipped her gray curls toward the paned glass at his elbow. Across the street Jeanne was leading her gray mare toward the edge of town; the animal was so loaded with a bag of something it looked more like a camel than a horse.

  Rita waited. “What’ll you have, Colonel?”

  “A large helping of crow,” he grumbled.

  “How about a steak ’n some fries instead?”

  “Sure.” He hadn’t heard a word the waitress had uttered, but he figured it didn’t matter. He wasn’t the least bit hungry.

  Rita propped her hands on her hips and followed the direction of Wash’s gaze. “I wouldn’t worry too much about her,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “Yeah? Why not?”

  “That’s one smart, hardworkin’ woman. She did just fine before you and the railroad got here. She’ll do just fine when you leave.”

  Wash worked on believing that, watching Jeanne march along, her head held high, her steps determined. She paused at the dressmaker’s and grasped her daughter’s hand. Just as she turned toward the shop door, sunlight washed the face beneath the floppy hat. His pulse sped up. Whatever it was she was so intent on this morning, she couldn’t look more beautiful.

  He picked up his fork, then put it down. He couldn’t watch. The devil of it was he couldn’t not watch.

  With Rita and the platter of steak and potatoes came a dark-faced Rooney. The older man turned a chair backward, settled himself across from Wash and inhaled dramatically.

  “Smells good.” He waggled his finger at Rita to order the same. “Izzat breakfast or lunch?”

  “Both.”

  “Thought so. You never turned up for Miz Rose’s biscuits ’n gravy this mornin’.”

  “Grading crew arrived,” Wash offered in explanation. There was more—lots more—but he wasn’t inclined to talk about it.

  Rooney nodded slowly. “Oh. Sure.”

  Wash swallowed a lump of fried potatoes. “Sykes sent some Chinese. Work like tigers.”

  “They take much overseein’?” Rooney’s black-and-gray eyebrows went up and down twice while waiting for an answer.

  “Not much. They’re good men. Why?”

  “Just wonderin’.”

  Wash closed his lips over a bite of steak. No way did his partner “just wonder” about something. He surveyed his friend’s craggy face while he chewed.

  “What do you want to know, Rooney?”

  “I wanna know who’s gonna keep watch over Jeanne and Little Miss at night?”

  Wash stopped eating. “You are. Go on out to MacAllister’s after supper, when it gets dark.”

  “You know Montez is still in jail, don’tcha?”

  “Yeah, I know. I checked with the sheriff.”

  Rooney frowned. “You don’t want to watch over her yourself, huh? Kinda strange for a man who’s got his britches in—”

  “I’ve got some paperwork to do. Canyon’s pretty steep at the far end, and I’ve got to figure—”

  Rooney snorted. “Don’t bother lyin’ to me, son. She scared ya last night, right?”

  Wash clanked his fork onto the china plate and sat without moving for a full minute. Then he sent a long, hard look straight into the older man’s twinkling onyx eyes.

  “Yeah, you’re right, Rooney. Worse than any Sioux ambush we ever lived through.” In some ways Rooney was still scouting for him, even though the older man was now his paymaster and second-in-command of his crews.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jeanne dangled her work boots over the sparse grass and weeds beyond the single wooden step she perched on, meticulously weaving the dried strands of lavender into generous wreaths that she tied at the top with a wide purple ribbon.

  She paused to rub the muscles of her shoulders. Four completed wreaths hung from nails she had driven into the bunkhouse wall; she knew she would need at least twice that many, but her neck was growing stiff from looking down at the fronds of lavender in her lap.

  Idly she watched Manette gather a fistful of the yellow dandelions dotting the stubbly hay field. Her daughter was fascinated by the sizes and shapes of growing things—even weeds. How she wished the girl would collect flower blossoms or pretty leaves in her secret box instead of spiders!

  But she had to laugh. When she herself was a girl, growing up in France, she had collected cocoons—hundreds of them. Maman must have worried over her the same way Jeanne fretted over Manette.

  Manette could now attend the Smoke River school instead of doing her lessons at home. The school had been too far away for someone who lived miles out of town, in Green Valley. But, besides her warm winter coat she would need shoes. And, Jeanne thought with a stab of anxiety, a proper home and nourishing food.

  She puffed her breath upward to chase a loose tendril of hair off her forehead and flexed her shoulders, resuming her work on the wreaths. It took money to buy food and warm clothing; her only source of income was the lavender sachets and wreaths she made and sold at the mercantile. She bit her lip. Would they earn enough?

  “Look, Maman, I am making a daisy chain!”

  “Those are dandelions, chou-chou, not daisies. But they will be very pretty.” And thank You, God, for a respite from the crawly insects Manette gathered wherever she went.

  She bent over the wreath once again and seamlessly wove in the last strands, all the while thinking about Wash Halliday. When she was with him, she felt valued. And…beautiful.

  A shard of doubt poked into her thoughts and she gazed toward the distant hills. They had exchanged no words since last night; how would it be between them when they met again?

  It would be dark soon; she must think about supper, not the man who smelled of leather and smoke and had spent all night with his arms wrapped around her. The setting sun bathed the bunkhouse and the wagon parked beside it in gold light, and a blush of crimson washed over the mountains to the east. Would he come tonight?

  The low thud of horse’s hooves brought her head up. Yes! He was here! Her heart skittered under her apron top. Heavens, what should she say to him?

  Manette’s squeal of joy cut through her uncertainty. “Look, Maman, it is Monsieur Rooney!”

  Jeanne clenched her teeth. It was Rooney and not Wash who rode up in a froth of dust. She swallowed back a surprisingly sharp pr
ick of disappointment.

  Manette dashed toward the gray-haired man. “Look what I made!” She held up the chain of yellow dandelions. Rooney dismounted and squatted on his haunches at her level, and the girl draped the necklace about his throat.

  “It’s for you,” she said with a happy laugh.

  Rooney said nothing for a moment, and then Jeanne saw that his eyes were shiny.

  “Well, thank you, Little Miss. Nicest necklace I’ve ever had.” The older man rose and tramped toward Jeanne.

  “Evenin’, Jeanne. All quiet and peaceful out here?”

  “Oui, all is quiet. Except for Manette reciting stories to the dandelions. Her favorite stories,” she added with a laugh. “In French.”

  Rooney chuckled. “Now that’s somethin’ I didn’t know about dandelions. Understand French, do they?”

  “I was about to prepare supper. Would you join us?”

  “Oh, no, ma’am. I ate already at the boardinghouse.”

  “Perhaps some café, then?”

  Manette flung her arms about Rooney’s knees. “Oh, yes, you want some coffee, don’t you? Say yes, Rooney. Please say yes.”

  “Well… Listen, Jeanne, I hope you won’t mind, but Wash sent me out to watch over you tonight.”

  “Oh?” Even to herself she sounded puzzled. “Wash is not coming?”

  “Yeah, well, no. He’s got some figurin’ to do for his railroad crew tonight and— To be frank, Jeanne, I’d like to roll out my pallet and stay the night, kinda keep an eye on things.”

  “Ah. Of course.” With trembling hands she gathered up the wreath makings, rolled up the leftover lavender fronds in an old blanket and set it just inside the doorway.

  Rooney cleared his throat. “I thought maybe we could do some talking. Maybe there’s some things I might explain about my partner.”

  Jeanne stopped short at the bunkhouse door. “What things?”