It was a fair question. She answered truthfully, “I am taking them to the East, to a place where wise men study them to learn about the past.”
“The past is better left buried. To unearth the past is to end the future.”
She felt her palms grow damp. What did he mean, end the future?
“I told Burnett to keep you away from the mesa,” he said.
The sensation of fear made her angry. “I know. He told me. But I don’t have to listen to Burnett.”
“Then you are even more stupid than I thought.”
Jessica was on her feet in an instant. “Now, you listen here—”
Whitey was suddenly beside her again. “She’s not going up to the mesa, are you, Miss Jessica?”
For once she let common sense override her temper. She cleared her throat, looked down at the scuffed toes of her boots, then off toward the horizon as if she had all the time in the world. “No. No, I’m not.”
Piah made no comment, but his silence convinced her that he didn’t believe a word. When she finally met his intense stare, he said softly, “You have been warned, woman.”
Then, without another word, he turned and walked back to the others. Almost as one, they mounted up and thundered away.
As the dust rode the breeze behind them Whitey threw his hat on the ground and ranted, “Damn it, Miss Jess, here I was hopin’ to keep things from gettin’ bad and you go and square off with one of the head honchos of the reservation!”
“Well, I’m sorry, but as I told your boss. I’m quite able to take care of myself.”
“Maybe that’s true back where you come from, but this is Colorado, ma’am, and well . . . if anything happened to you, why I’d . . . ”
She watched him shift uncomfortably as he searched for words, then much to her chagrin, Whitey Higgins reached out and grabbed her. Her helmet tumbled into the dirt just before he smashed his lips against hers.
The entire bumbling incident took less than two seconds, but it was enough to cause her frayed temper to snap. She shoved him away with all her might and glared. “What is it with you men out here?”
He was beet red from collar to hairline. Once more his voice cracked. “Oh, Lordy, I’m so sorry Miss Jessica. I don’t know what came over me.”
She drew herself up to her full height. The sun in her eyes forced her to stoop down and pick up her helmet. She slammed it on her head so hard she winced. Reminding herself she was older, wiser, and therefore should be more in control of her emotions, she said as calmly as possible, “I’m certain it was merely the heat and the tenseness of the situation, Whitey. I think it’s best if we both put this entire incident out of our minds.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I do not intend to let anything sway me from my appointed task.” I just wish I could dismiss Rory Burnett’s kiss as easily.
“No, ma’am.”
“I have no room in my life for romantic entanglements.” Not with you or Mr. Rory Burnett.
“No, ma’am.”
“Definitely not. None whatsoever.”
“No, ma’am.” Whitey picked up his hat, dusted it off, and then brushed off the brim to avoid looking at her.
“I do not welcome any romantic advances.” Since Burnett’s kiss was definitely executed with more finesse, does that mean he goes around kissing women all the time? How else does one hone such skills?
“No, ma’am. I’m truly sorry, Miss Jessica.”
“Then I take it we understand each other?” Rory Burnett did not smash my teeth. He slipped his tongue into my mouth with ease, so much so that I nearly melted in his arms.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Fine, then let’s get back to work.”
Her hands were still shaking when she wiped them on her skirt and pushed her hair back off her face. In just over a week she’d been kissed by not one but two men. Stalking over to the wagon bed to retrieve her gloves, she shook her head in disbelief. She had a lot to learn about Western men. Even the young ones were certainly not hesitant about taking whatever they wanted.
That’s what comes of letting down my guard, she thought. Next time, she vowed as she pulled her spectacles out of her skirt pocket and slipped them on, she’d be ready.
Chapter Eight
SPENDING SATURDAY in Durango was always worth the sweat, dust, and rigors of a cattle drive. Rory leaned against a hitching rail in front of the Phoenix Variety Theatre and watched the water wagon roll past and sprinkle down the dusty street. In a little while the town band and various conveyances would line up for the weekly parade of soiled doves new to Durango.
Woody Barrows nudged Rory with an elbow and nodded toward the open door of the combination dance hall and saloon. “Looks like there’s some time left before the puddles dry up and the parade starts. I’m goin’ in to have a beer with Hench. Want one?”
Rory shook his head and pushed away from the rail. “No thanks. I think I’ll wander down the street.”
“See ya later then,” Woody called out over his shoulder before he disappeared behind the saloon doors.
Rory hoped a walk might help him sort out his feelings. A slow-simmering anger coupled with confusion had been brewing inside him ever since he took payment and they left the cattle at the stockyard. Miss Jessica Stanbridge with her sun-freckled nose, her prim, high-buttoned collar, her bedraggled beige linen suit, and her tempting lips had plagued his thoughts the better part of the drive.
Not only had he contended with Gathers and Tinsley continually sparring over the right to the orejana bull, but his mind kept conjuring up unwanted visions of Jess as he’d seen her last. The memory of their kiss had kept him awake long hours into the night. He’d volunteered to take the night watch more often and far longer than any of the others. It beat lying awake on his bedroll staring up at the night sky and thinking of the way her soft lips had parted so willingly at his tongue’s insistence and how she had grabbed hold of his shirt as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. It kept him from fighting off the physical discomfort that accompanied the vivid memories.
Trying to lose himself in the crowd, Rory moved along the boardwalk, dodging Saturday revelers and women shoppers, until he came to a wide storefront window where a flash of soft yellow caught his eye. A quick glance told him the place was a dressmaker’s shop, and with another look over his shoulder, he made certain none of his cowhands were around. He stopped for a moment, reached down pretending to fasten the buckle of his spur, and peered at the dress in the window.
On close inspection he could see that the soft material wasn’t a bright yellow, but closer to ivory, the color of creamy butter. A wide, shiny ribbon adorned the narrow waist; its tails hung almost to the hem. More ribbons, each tied with a saucy bow at the elbows, decorated the sleeves. He was studying it carefully, trying to imagine Jessica in such a frivolous dress, when a small boy in a white shirt and suspendered knickers ran right into him and knocked him on his rear into the flow of foot traffic.
“Sorry, mister,” the boy called out, immediately lost to sight as he zigzagged through the crowd.
“Shit!” Rory cursed aloud. He heard a startled gasp and looked up past two well-dressed matrons’ skirts to find them staring down their noses at him with contempt. Three shades of red beneath his hat, he mumbled an apology, then stood and dusted himself off. The ladies moved on without looking back.
Before he could change his mind, he opened the door to the dressmaker’s shop. A tiny bell chimed as he entered. The store was small, quiet, and empty, he noted thankfully as he closed the door behind him. A short, thin woman with snapping brown eyes and curly, faded brown hair stepped out from behind a counter that stood in front of what looked like a wall of shelves filled with bolts of material.
“May I help you, sir?”
He cleared his throa
t, remembered to take off his hat, and then looked over at the front window display. “I want to buy that dress in the window.”
She looked him up and down, taking in his dusty, trail-worn appearance. “I’m afraid it’s very expensive.” He thought of the bank draft in his pocket. The cattle he’d sold had brought a good price; still, he had no idea what an expensive, ready-made dress might cost—but at that moment it didn’t matter. He wanted it because he wanted to see Jess in it. “I’ll take it anyway.”
For some reason the woman became incredibly stubborn. “Without asking the price?”
Was he losing his mind or had she lost hers? “What kind of a store are you running here? Do you want to sell it or not?”
She crossed her arms. “I cater to the best families of Durango, sir. Now, just how do you know it will fit?”
He sidestepped her, carefully skirted a spindly table covered with lace and baubles, and walked over to the window display. Setting his hat on a bolt of cloth spread out on another table, he reached out and lifted the dress form with the butter-colored dress out of the window and stood it on the floor with a sharp thud.
“Now, see here—”
Ignoring the proprietress, Rory put his hands around the waist of the form, ran them up along the sides of the breasts then down over the hips. He lifted the wire form and turned it around, studied the back of the dress, held it up a bit, and eyed the length before he announced, “It’ll fit. Wrap it up.”
“I refuse to sell this dress to you if you’re going to give it to one of those women who’ll be parading by in a few minutes. I don’t do work for the likes of them directly or indirectly and I—”
He wanted the dress bad enough to give her a partial explanation. “I’m taking it home with me.”
She seemed to soften immediately. “For your wife, then?”
He retrieved his hat. “Do you want to sell me this dress or not?”
Rory could see the woman wanted to ask more as she slipped the dress off the form and carefully folded it while she walked toward the high oak counter. “I’ll wrap it up good then. Do you have far to go?”
“Outside Cortez.” He folded his arms and waited, wondering what the charge would be but too stubborn to ask.
He heard the roll of a snare drum and the clash of cymbals down the street. The dressmaker glanced at the window with a frown as she tied a string around the brown wrapping paper. “That’ll be six dollars.”
Rory hid his shock and dug the money out of his pocket without a word. An off-key trombone could be heard above the other band instruments.
“I hope your . . . well, I hope the lady enjoys it,” the woman said as she handed the package over to him.
“Thanks.” He shoved his hat back on and headed for the door just as the drum major appeared in front of the store. The boardwalk was lined with men, and the good ladies of the town pressed back against the storefronts and tried not to be seen watching the parade of whores. Rory tucked the package under his arm and waited for the commotion to die down.
A band led the parade, the musicians’ bright uniforms overshadowing their lack of skill. The drummers walked by last and the deep reverberations of drumbeats were soon replaced by cheers and shouts of the men welcoming the week’s colorful crop of fallen angels newly come to town via the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad. A fringe-covered surrey led the cavalcade of buggies from the livery stable, all of them full of whores decked out in feathered boas, shining satin gowns, and twinkling jewels.
Rory couldn’t help but wonder what comments Jessica would have on the subject, but he was certain she would have a definite opinion on such an obvious display of bad taste. Three girls rode by mounted sidesaddle and dressed even more flamboyantly than the rest. A dark-eyed brunette in a shocking scarlet gown with a feather boa caught his eye, winked, and threw him a kiss. Rory smiled back, tempted to wave and cause a stir amid the crowd of virtuous ladies standing nearby. Instead he watched the girls until they were down the block, turned his attention to the rest of the parade, and when it was finally over, followed the stream of men moving back toward the railroad tracks, which marked the boundary between the more respected section of town and the bars and bawdy houses.
He found his cowhands gathered around a beer-splashed table near the center of the velvet-draped dance hall inside the Phoenix Variety Theatre. Toothless Barney Tinsley was sprawled in a low-backed chair with a brassy blonde seated across his thighs. She was absentmindedly rubbing the top of Barney’s bald head with her fingertips as she stared off across the room. When Rory approached, she swung her gaze his way, smiled provocatively, and then snuggled closer to Barney. It was clear the old wrangler had paid for the privilege of the lady’s company all evening.
The man they all knew only as Gathers, tall and lean, his right cheek sporting a crescent-shaped scar, sat apart from the rest. Silent as usual, he watched the proceedings from beneath a lowered hat brim. Gathers, who took a barrelful of teasing about the sixty-foot rope he carried with his rig, had been with the Silver Sage for nearly two years now, and in all that time no one had heard him say more than four words in a string. He was a good man around cattle and horses, and Rory, like his father before him, had no complaints about the man or his work.
Wheelbarrow and Hench, the long and the short of the crew, were both teasing a barmaid as she made the rounds with a tray of beer mugs balanced precariously on her shoulder. Just as Barrows reached out to pinch her shapely bottom, Hench swatted his friend’s hand away. It was a routine Rory had seen them perform many times before. The barmaid gave them both a cheeky grin.
Rory drew up an empty chair and set the brown-wrapped package down on the seat. After greeting the others, he turned to look at the small stage at the far end of the room. A piano off to the side was nearly hidden by the lush stage curtains. Someone began a tinny rendition of “There Is a Tavern in the Town,” and the men in the front row began clapping and singing along.
“Buy me a drink?”
Rory turned to find the same brown-eyed brunette who’d waved to him earlier standing at his elbow. She was nearly as tall as he, with nice legs that were exposed by the swag cut of her scarlet skirt. He looked her up and down as she linked her arm through his elbow.
“What’ll you have?” Figuring he had just spent twice what he paid one of the men for a month’s wages on Jessica Stanbridge, Rory felt the need to prove to himself that Jess didn’t have any sort of hold on him at all.
The girl on his arm—he could see she was little more than that—licked her carmine lips and tossed her thick curls, so that they played against the fair, unmarred skin of her exposed shoulder. “A beer would be nice,” she purred, leaning against him, making certain he was aware of her breast brushing against his aim.
“Two beers,” he called out to the barmaid across the table as he dug deep into his pocket and came up with a dime. The barmaid held up her palm. He tossed the dime and she deftly caught it, then hurried off.
The brunette whispered in his ear, “You in town for long, cowboy?”
A shiver shot down his neck straight to his groin. “Nope.”
The girl on Tinsley’s lap giggled when the old man planted a sloppy, wet kiss on her shoulder. As he swung his gaze away from the sight, Barrows and Hench caught Rory’s eye. They were watching him carefully, poking each other in the ribs and laughing as they nodded in approval of the beauty at his side.
Feeling more like an observer than a willing participant, Rory wondered how many times they had all been in this same room, with the same type of girls, laughing over the same jokes. Before this afternoon it had always seemed like enough. Truth be told, he had always looked forward to trips to Durango, but now it seemed that Miss Jessica Stanbridge had not only ruined his ability to sleep and cost him a hell of a lot of money, but she put a real damper on his fun.
When the beers
arrived, he drank them both and ordered two more with a quick apology to the young woman hanging on his arm. When he couldn’t help but notice that she was looking at him with calf eyes, he smiled into them and whispered, “Why me, darlin’?”
She pulled him around until they stood toe to toe and nose to nose. Fred Hench hooted. Rory tried to concentrate, not on her cleavage, but on her words. “Because you’re not only good-lookin’, cowboy, but you still got all your teeth.”
He threw back his head and laughed. Still, he found himself wanting more than a quick tumble.
Later, when six empty beer mugs lined the table and Rory was still standing in the same spot holding on to the brunette, whose name was Dovie, she invited him upstairs.
It was the inevitable ending to a visit to the Phoenix. The steep, outdoor stairway behind the brick building led up to the cribs on the second floor. He’d been in nearly all of the small, unventilated rooms since his first trip into Durango and knew they were virtually the same. Each of the five rooms was equipped with a bed, a chair, a small bureau, and a slop jar, or thunder mug, under the bed.
“You comin’ along, honey?” Dovie tugged on his arm.
There was no reason in the world why he shouldn’t go upstairs with her—still, he balked. All he could think of was Jessica standing against the purpled sunset sky, looking up at him so trustingly from behind her silly spectacles.
“Go on, Burnett,” Barrows called out. “If you don’t, I will.”
Dovie looked downhearted at the idea. She held on tight to Rory’s elbow. “I’ll help you up the stairs,” she volunteered.
“I’m not drunk,” he told her. Not drunk enough, anyway. Why not go on up? He challenged himself with the question again. Why the hell not? More than likely Miss Jessica Stanbridge would soon find exactly what she wanted, pack up her little picks and hammers, notebooks and teacups, and head back to Boston without so much as a by-your-leave.
That settled it.
“Let’s go,” he told Dovie before he could change his mind again. He tipped his hat back and deftly turned her around so that she could lead him through the room.
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