Lady Lavender

by Lynna Banning

  Jeanne calmly helped Manette off the horse and when her daughter skipped off through the gate to find Mark, she faced a concerned Sarah Rose.

  “I am doing what I must do,” she said, her voice quiet.

  “Harumph!” The landlady looked her up and down. “Don’t tuck your shirt in, honey. Look too much like a woman. Where’d you get those duds, anyway?”

  Jeanne gulped. “From Mr. Ness, at the mercantile.”

  The older woman narrowed her eyes. “You’re riding to Gillette Springs.” It wasn’t a question.

  Jeanne looked her straight in the eye. “I will be away for perhaps four nights. Would you—?”

  “’Course I will,” the landlady interjected. “Don’t you worry, I’ll take real good care of her.”

  Jeanne handed down a home-made gingham duffel bag with a fresh change of clothes for Manette. Mrs. Rose caught her hand and held it tight. “Be careful.”

  Jeanne nodded and patted her vest pocket. “I will. And I have my derringer.”

  Mrs. Rose’s eyes went wide, but before she could say anything more, Jeanne flapped the reins and set off down the street, heading east.

  The early morning sun in the eastern sky was blinding. She tipped her hat down to shade her eyes and for the tenth time in the last hour slowed her mare and wondered whether she was doing the right thing.

  It was forty miles to Gillette Springs—too far to ride in a single day. “Alors,” she said aloud, “I have only to cover half that distance today. I will camp out overnight in some protected place, and ride on tomorrow morning.”

  Her thighs felt the burn of five unbroken hours on horseback. She kept her focus on the road far ahead, watching for a puff of dust that would indicate a rider coming toward her. So far she had seen no one on the road except for the new young doctor in town, Nathaniel Dougherty, who had barreled past her in his buggy. “Baby coming,” he had shouted. “Sorry for my dust.”

  She had drawn rein and turned the mare away from the flurry of grit and dirt, then resumed her pace.

  By noon the sun rode over her head like a huge gold plate and the heat pounded down on her head and shoulders. The scant breeze died; the dust coated her skin and made her already dry throat raw. By dusk, she was fighting to keep her drooping eyelids open.

  She scanned ahead for a stand of trees or large boulders where she could roll out her woolen blanket and be screened from the road. She would not risk a fire; smoke would draw attention. Perhaps unwanted attention. A shiver went up her spine and she smoothed her hand over her vest pocket where the derringer lay.

  Just ahead, off the road to the left, she spotted a clump of trees. They were lush and green and would provide good cover for herself and the mare. She pulled the mare to a halt and squinted into the haze.

  A single rider was moving toward her, the horse kicking up puffs of dust. She was too far away to clearly see either the rider or the horse, but she was sure it was a man. Most women rode sidesaddle.

  He was coming fast. She kicked the mare and galloped off the road, headlong into the sheltering copse of leafy cottonwoods and green pines. And a spring! Was she dreaming? Water bubbled lazily into an inviting pool. Her body felt parched from her forehead to her toes.

  Quickly she slid off the mare and parted the lush branches until she could see the road. The rider had not altered his pace but was still not close enough to her thicket to be a danger. She grasped the mare’s bridle, held its head down close to her shoulder and smoothed her hand over its nose. Standing motionless, afraid to breathe, she listened for hoofbeats. Holy Father, please, do not let the mare whinny.

  The horseman drew closer. Close enough to see her if she pulled aside some branches, but she dared not; he might notice the motion of the trees.

  The sound of hoofbeats grew louder, and still louder…and then passed on. She waited until the pounding hooves faded into silence and all she could hear was her mare’s soft breathing and air being pulled into her own lungs.

  She was safe! She cast a glance at the tumble of flat stones someone had used as a campfire. “Non. No fire. I will eat cold beans and apples.”

  She waited until full dark to sponge off the dirt in the small pool and lay out her bedroll. She dribbled a handful of oats into the mare’s nosebag, then wrapped herself up in the warm wool blankets and forked the cold beans straight out of the can. She felt for the derringer, drew it out and laid it within easy reach. She closed her eyes.

  An incessant question hammered in her brain: what would Wash say to her?

  A dry leaf crackled and her lids snapped open. A moment later a twig snapped. Very slowly Jeanne sat up and reached for the gun.

  The sporadic rustling continued, not loud, and not often—just enough to let her know she was not alone. Probably just a deer, she thought. Or a squirrel or a rabbit or…

  If it was a deer or a rabbit, she could make a noise and scare it off. Carefully she scooped up a handful of leaves and crackled them into her palm.

  Nothing moved.

  The derringer in her right hand began to wobble. She wrapped her other hand over the grip to steady it and tried hard to keep her breathing slow and even. Surely whatever, or whoever, it was could hear her heart thudding against her ribs.

  Would he spy her mare?

  Ah, no, he would not. She had tied the animal in a thick copse that was screened from view on all sides.

  Sweat dripped off her forehead. Her nose itched, but she dared not lift her hand to scratch it. She waited. And waited.

  She thought she would scream, but she waited.

  It was dark and quiet in the small grove of trees Wash had used as a camp before. Unnaturally quiet. No evening sparrow trilled from the cottonwoods; no small animals rustled in the undergrowth. Reminded him of how night noises went suddenly still when Indians lay waiting in an ambush.

  He had purposely ridden past the campsite, then circled around and approached from the opposite direction. He dismounted quietly, slid an oat-filled feedbag over General’s muzzle, and made his way to the campfire site he remembered. Whatever noise the horse made would draw the attention of whoever was hiding among the thick growth of trees.

  Sure enough, a twig cracked where he’d left the horse. General was growing restless.

  Wash himself jumped at a different sound, a sharp noise that rose over the gentle gurgling of the spring. He listened for a long time, holding his body absolutely still. There it was again! A chattery noise, like stepping on dry leaves.

  Whoever was hiding in the shadows was taking his sweet time making his presence known. Now that he thought about it, he had to ask himself why. An outlaw? Somebody on the run?

  The back of his neck got that crawly feeling he remembered from Indian ambushes. Very deliberately he fished a small stone out of his shirt pocket and tossed it into a clump of weeds. The slight rattle faded into silence. He tried another, larger stone.

  Same thing. With caution, he edged one foot forward, settled it on the ground without breaking the quiet, and only then rocked his weight onto it. Indians walked silent like that; Rooney had taught him. He lifted the other boot and set it down the same way. One more step and he’d—

  “Stand where you are or I will shoot.” A kid’s voice, pitched low to sound like a man.

  Wash peered in the direction of the voice but could see only the outline of shaggy pine trees. “Who’s there?”

  “None of your business.” Real young kid. Voice was shaky.

  “Okay if I picket my horse here?”

  A pause. “Okay.”

  “Thought I might get some shut-eye. Okay with you?”

  A longer pause. “Perhaps.”

  Perhaps! A kid who used formal English?

  “I’m not coming anywhere near you, boy. Just don’t shoot if you hear some noise.”

  No answer. Did the kid really have a gun trained on him? Maybe he was just bluffing.

  “Hey, kid? I’d appreciate it if you put your sidearm away.”

  �
��No.” Something about that word sounded odd. In fact, something about the kid himself didn’t make sense.

  “How old are you, boy?”

  “None of your business.”

  This time Wash heard a soft sound, maybe a body rolling up in a blanket. Good. He guessed the boy’s gun was no longer pointed at him. He tramped noisily over to his horse, rummaged in his saddlebag for a couple of biscuits he’d swiped from Mrs. Zwenk’s breakfast platter and grabbed his water canteen. Then he loosened the saddle cinch, kicked away any stone he felt under his boots and rolled out the blanket.

  He lay in the dark trying to visualize his unfriendly companion and chewed a single bite of Mrs. Zwenk’s iron biscuit until his belly stopped growling. He had to laugh. The kid’s voice had hardly reached a man’s lower register. Kinda throaty and with a funny—

  He yelped as the knowledge hit him. Somewhere near him a gun went off with a sharp snap, and a bullet zinged into the tree behind him.

  Wash scrambled toward the sound. “Don’t shoot!” he shouted. “Dammit, Jeanne, don’t shoot!”

  A stifled cry came from the cottonwoods. He crawled toward it.

  “Jeanne? I know it’s you.” His knee landed on a rock and he groaned with frustration. “For Heaven’s sake, don’t pull the trigger!”

  “Why should I not?” came the wavery voice.

  “Because if you kill me, we’ll have to have a wake instead of a wedding!”

  He heard a gasp and inched blindly forward until he stumbled over a warm lump huddled near the spring.

  “Wash?” came a small, distinctly female voice. “Did you say wedding?”

  “I did.” He spoke before he could stop himself.

  The warm lump uncurled and reached for him. “Wash,” she breathed near his ear. “How did you know it was me?”

  He kissed her, and took his time with it. “Doesn’t matter,” he murmured after a while. He kissed her again. “You’re damn lucky I’m not armed.”

  “Oh,” she sighed. “I am damn lucky anyway. Kiss me again.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  He held her close for a long time while she confessed why she was on the road heading to Gillette Springs. “I decided that we should not be apart. We should be together.”

  “Yeah?” Wash tightened his arms about her.

  “It felt good when we were together, even when we were fighting. And,” she added with a catch in her voice, “I have been alone for too long. I was never lonely until you came into my life, and then I began to feel what I had been missing.”

  She fell silent, and Wash rose, built a fire between three of the flat rocks and retrieved a tin shaving basin from his saddlebag. He filled it with water from the spring and set it over the flames. Then he tugged the wool blanket out from under her, added his saddle blanket and tossed the double roll close to the fire.

  Without speaking, they perched close together on the bedroll, toasting their feet so close to the flames the leather soles of their boots began to smoke.

  “Feet warm enough?” Wash joked. Hurriedly she pulled off her riding boots; he added his and then lined them up in front of the fire like four soldiers at attention.

  He tested the heated water with his forefinger. “Try it,” he invited. “You can have a whole bath just by rubbing your wet hands over your skin. ’Course,” he said with a grin, “you have to take off your clothes.”

  Jeanne began to unbutton her vest and then the boy’s striped muslin shirt she wore. When she had splashed water over herself down to her waist, she hesitated. Wash drew off her denim trousers and her lacy pantalettes and finished the job for her, running his hands over her bare skin until she began to tremble.

  Then he stood, stripped and poured the remaining water over his torso and waited. Jeanne took the hint.

  When they had both dried off and stopped shivering, he pulled her down beside him on the blankets. Watching the flames burn down to coals, they began to talk. It was the first time Wash had ever put into words what had been growing in his heart.

  “Rooney was right about me. All these years I’ve been driven by fear, so scared of getting hurt again that I forgot how to live.”

  Jeanne reached for his hand and laced her fingers with his, suddenly very close to tears. “Do you want to remember how to live?”

  “I’m not sure I can,” he admitted honestly. “How I spent the years after Laura wasn’t exactly living, it was more like dying. And living—real living, with you and Manette—still scares me some.”

  Jeanne leaned over to brush her lips against his cheek.

  “I think that it scares you a lot.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “But you kept trying, that was the important thing. Courage is not walking into battle with no fear—you should know this as a soldier. Courage is feeling great fear, but walking forward anyway.”

  “Jeanne,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t want to be away from you. Don’t want to spend my nights wondering if you are aching for me the same way I’m aching for you. I love you. I want us to get married.”

  “Ah, that is what I hoped you would want! That is why I was coming to see you.”

  “Jeanne…” he said when he finally lifted his mouth from hers. “Now that Manette has a grandfather, do you think she might like to adopt a father, as well?”

  “I am quite sure of it. And if she does not, I will take away her spider box.”

  Their laughter rose into the quiet.

  Dr. Nathaniel Dougherty drove his buggy slowly along the road back to Smoke River. Twins, he mused. He’d delivered twins tonight. Twice the labor, but twice the joy.

  The horses were tired. He was tired. Suddenly he pulled up. Laughter floated on the warm night air, a man’s deep tones and a woman’s lighter ones. It came from the grove of cottonwoods up ahead.

  Well, well, well. He couldn’t help smiling.

  He would not interrupt. Maybe nine months from now there would be another set of twins for him to deliver.

  “You own the Double H?” Wash stared at her, scarcely able to believe what she had said.

  “I do,” Jeanne admitted. “It is a nice farm, is it not? I like it very much.”

  “Did you know this was my father’s place? Before he died he turned the Bar H into the Double H, hoping I’d come home to stay after the War.”

  Jeanne just looked at him, her blue-green eyes widening.

  “No, I did not know. That is perfect, then!” She admired the gold band on her finger. “You are Wash Halliday. And I am now Jeanne Halliday. Does that not make a Double H?”

  Wash could not answer. The joy he felt made everything glow with an extra-bright luster.

  For a long moment they simply stood together on a hill overlooking their farm. Then Wash and Jeanne Halliday, married that morning in the Smoke River Catholic Church, joined hands and bent to admire their daughter Manette’s new collection of spiders.

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-8491-7

  LADY LAVENDER

  Copyright © 2011 by The Woolston Family Trust

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