Denim and Lace

by Rice, Patricia

  He gave her a suspicious glare, but she smiled innocently, her bright blue eyes a reminder of the anxiety he had seen there yesterday. He held out his good arm. "Give it to me. I'll feed myself."

  "The last time I did that for Jack, he threw the bowl at me. Now you wouldn't be thinkin' of doin' that, would you now?"

  He had, but if Jack were that criminal demon in here earlier, he wouldn't be lowered to the same level. Sloan smiled unpleasantly. "Now do I look like the sort of man who would do something like that? I've got better plans for you."

  The she-demon unfastened the towel tying the lid to the bowl of broth. Letting the cotton slip from her hands, she splashed some of the still warm liquid across his bare belly.

  Sloan yowled and reached to knock the bowl from her hands, but the pain in his shoulder jerked him back again. Clenching the bandage, he glared at her. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

  "Evidently, so are you, or you wouldn't continue to behave like a wet cat just to annoy me. I didn't come here for the fun of it, you realize. I have better things to do with my time."

  "Like what? Punching cattle?" Sloan gave her denims a disdainful look as he reached for the bowl she handed him.

  "Like finding enough meat to salt away to keep my family from going hungry all winter." She handed him the bowl and spoon and stepped out of throwing range.

  He had some difficulty balancing the bowl with his bad arm and eating with his left hand, but he managed it. After a few awkward spoonfuls, however, he gave up and drank directly from the bowl.

  Sloan Talbott was unbathed, unshaven, and his hair was a disgraceful tangle, but he still managed to make the act of sipping broth from a bowl a matter of elegance. Sam couldn't imagine him cleaned up, but she could see him sipping tea from a porcelain cup without disgracing himself. Talbott was a dangerous man in more ways than one.

  He gave her another glance when he drained the bowl. "You'll not have time to salt anything before you leave the mountain. I'd recommend you start moving on before the snow flies."

  Maliciously, she contemplated leaving the biscuits and ham in the basket and having them for lunch. But he still had some funny idea that he was in charge here. She meant to disillusion him.

  Producing the covered pan of mouth-watering biscuits, Sam held it in her palm, took the lid off, and helped herself. Daintily wiping the corner of her mouth while he glared at her, she waited until the bite was completely chewed before deigning to reply.

  "We're not going anywhere, Mr. Talbott. The house is ours and we intend to stay." She donned an expression of concern as his brows pulled together in a black line of fury. "You look a bit peevish, sir. I do believe the excess of exercise has been bad for you. I'll just put these away for another time. Why don't you lie down and get some rest?"

  Covering the pan, she started to return it to the basket. A hairy hand wrapped around her wrist with a band of steel.

  "I'm feeling just fine. It's you who look a little pale. Let me relieve you of that burden." Sloan grabbed the pan from her hands at the cost of another shooting pain of agony that didn't stop at his shoulder, but swept right through his middle until he had to bite his lip to keep from screaming. It was worth every ounce of pain to see her astonishment at his maneuver as he sat back against the wall again, this time with the pan of biscuits in his lap.

  "You underestimate me, Miss Neely," he continued conversationally. "I'll be back in town tomorrow. If you're not gone by then, I'll help you pack. I don't allow women in my town. I won't let you wait around to find out why."

  "You underestimate a Neely, Mr. Talbott," she answered serenely. "If we condescend to lend you our presence, you won't have anything to say about it."

  She swept out as if she wore satins and lace and feathers in her hair.

  Sloan stared after her, sure he was hallucinating. She was no more than a ragtag redheaded tomboy with a voice like honey and a tongue of vinegar. The sudden departure of light when she left the room just meant the sun had gone behind a cloud.

  Any more of that voice of hers, and she would have him believing in witches.

  Chapter Five

  “They're living where?" The words were more a shout of incredulity than a question as Sloan glared at his drunken bodyguard.

  Joe shrugged and grabbed a rein before the movement could throw him off his horse. "In that big house on the plaza that's been empty since we got here. I thought maybe you meant to save it for your bride."

  "Bride? Are you out of your ever-lovin' ..." The string of epithets that followed was not entirely coherent, but covered Joe's present incapacity and ranged to his ancestors before diverting to the castigation of women as a whole.

  Joe didn't look impressed. "They moved in two whole wagon loads of things and dismantled the canvas rigging. They're here to stay."

  "Over my dead body." Giving a wince as his body reminded him that time might be sooner than expected, Sloan urged his stallion to a faster pace. He couldn't leave the damn place for two minutes without trouble starting.

  "Does that mean I need to sober up and start doing my duty?" Joe studied the half-empty bottle in his hand with regret.

  "Against a bunch of women? You think I can't handle a bunch of women on my own? Maybe that rotgut finally got to your brain."

  Not in the least insulted, Joe took another gulp and tucked the bottle back into his saddlebag. "If you could handle women, you wouldn't mind them moving in. Nope. I reckon it's time I dried out for a spell. You're going to need me."

  Sloan snorted. "Suit yourself." Then urging his mount to a gallop that strained his shoulder to the limits, he raced into town. Those women would be out of town before sunset.

  "Those women" were doing laundry in the back yard with the help of every man in town. Vats of water bubbled over a giant fire from which barrels of sudsy water and rinsing pans were constantly replenished by a stream of male water carriers. Sheets already flapped in the brisk breeze off the mountain while more men struggled to hang ropes for the rest of the loads. From the mounds of laundry left, it was apparent that this joint effort was instigated by shared needs. The women needed someone to do the heavy work, and the men needed their laundry done.

  Within the discreet shade of the sagging wagon shed, one of the women washed female undergarments and hung them out of sight of hungry male eyes. The wind through the cracks would dry the delicate linens without the help of the sun. Although she kept her back to the activity outside, preventing anyone from seeing through the open door, more than one man strained his eyes to see around her. Whispers ran rampant as the men speculated on the silks and laces that might now be adorning the old shed walls. It had been a long time since any of them had seen silks and laces.

  Another female hid out of sight in the kitchen, stirring up smells that even had Sloan’s mouth watering. The scent of baking pie could be distinctly discerned from the savory odor of stewing meat.

  Sloan didn’t stop at the hotel to wash and change but rode directly into the domestic scene. He wanted to give the women plenty of time to start packing.

  The sight of laundry flapping in the breeze and men swarming across the yard warned that his task might not be so easily accomplished as he had hoped.

  Avoiding the activity in the courtyard, Sloan stalked through the front door without knocking. The house had been empty for as long as he had known it, a haven for dust and spiders and rodents. The sight of it newly swept clean and decorated with shaded lamps and velvet-covered chairs did nothing to improve his humor.

  Entering the kitchen, where he hoped to find the woman of the house, he startled a vision in green dimity and a starched apron. An angelic face was framed by a golden halo of curls caught at the nape in a ribbon before cascading down her back. She took one look at Sloan and screamed so loud he feared the adobe would shake loose from the rafters.

  The scream shook him slightly. Women didn't generally scream when he came in sight, especially since he'd taken care to shave and clean up before leavin
g the cabin. But as she backed up against the far door, Sloan began to enjoy the position. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared menacingly.

  "Mama! Samantha!" The screams echoed out the windows and through the room as she held her ladle out like a weapon. "Keep away from me!"

  Sloan leaned a shoulder against the door frame and growled, "What are you going to do, shoot me with stew?"

  She was pretty in her confusion, but he liked the next sight that appeared better.

  Samantha came racing through the doorway, rifle in hand, red curls bouncing, freckled nose pink from heat and exertion. She wasn't confused, she was furious, and it took only one glimpse of him for her to turn the rifle in his direction.

  Sloan didn't shift his position. He didn't doubt that she knew how to use that thing; he was just confident she wouldn't. Women were like that. But the crowd of men forming behind her was another matter entirely. They all owed him, but he wouldn't count on calling in their debts right now.

  "What in hell do you think you're doing to my sister?" Sam stepped in front of Bernadette, blocking her from Sloan. She wanted to swear out loud. She wanted to tell Bernie to check to see if their mother had gone to protect Harriet. And she wanted to slap the man before her silly. Unable to do everything at once, she settled for aiming the rifle at his crotch.

  "Put that blamed thing down before you hurt someone," he answered crossly. "That make has a hair trigger, and I've done nothing to sing soprano for. If that screaming banshee is your sister, I just startled her a mite."

  Sam moved the rifle a fraction so it aimed closer to the wall behind him. "Where I come from, people knock before entering."

  "Where I come from, people don't have to knock at their own doors. This is my house, and you're all trespassing."

  Sam heard Bernie's gasp. The men remained silent. They'd probably known all along. That didn't change the facts. "If this is the town of Talbott, and this is the Alvarez hacienda on the plaza, you're lying, and I want you out of here now, Mister Talbott. We have the deed in our possession."

  He didn't know what the hell the Alvarez hacienda might be, but Sloan knew what he owned and what he didn't. Straightening, he stepped closer to the termagant with the big mouth. She really did have a big mouth, he noticed. Full, generous lips spread across a face as delicately made as some of his mother's finest porcelain. Somehow, the incongruous combination worked with this woman.

  "And I own the land grant for this entire side of the mountain. Whatever you have is a worthless piece of paper. This is my town, my mountain, and women aren't welcome here. I'll give you until sundown tomorrow to get out."

  The men outside were murmuring angrily. Samantha felt a sinking sensation in her stomach that she had known before, but she wasn't about to let anyone else know it. Her father didn't always spend a lot of time on details. He believed the best of everyone. Sometimes it worked; sometimes it didn't. She had a sneaking suspicion this was one of those times that it hadn't, but she couldn't let anyone else know that. They had come two thousand miles to settle in this home. She wasn't going to let a mean-spirited, ill-tempered bully of a man send them out into the cold world, homeless. She wouldn't think about his claim to the entire side of the mountain. Maybe the valley her father had bought for her wasn't on his part of the mountain.

  "I don't know anything about land grants, Mr. Talbott. I just know we have the deed to this house. I'll hold my deed up to your grant in court anytime. You just tell us where to find the judge."

  She had him there. So far he'd been judge, sheriff, and town council all in one, but even with Sloan's lack of legal knowledge, he knew that a judge couldn't rule on his own case. He wouldn't let that deter him, however.

  He smiled unpleasantly. "The nearest judge is probably down in Sacramento. You're free to go look for him if you like. But in the meantime, I'm moving all this crap out into the street. I'd recommend that you take it with you."

  "You and who else, Talbott?" Ramsey shoved his way in from the back porch.

  Sloan gave the doctor a look of contempt. "If need be, I'll do it alone. I'm not asking for any help from anybody."

  Mrs. Neely hurried through the path the doctor had made. Bernadette ran to her side as soon as she entered, and she gave the girl a hug, taking in the sling on Sloan’s arm with recognition.

  "Mr. Talbott! We finally get a chance to meet. Come in, sit down. You really aren't well enough to be on your feet already." She pulled out a kitchen chair and shoved it in his direction, then glided toward the stew pot hanging over the fire. Even after a morning over laundry tubs, she appeared cool and crisp. Tendrils of hair curled about her face, and she didn't wear the usual number of petticoats, but to men who hadn't seen real ladies in years, she appeared the epitome of all the proper females they had left behind.

  Talbott hesitated a moment too long. Before he could object, the woman was handing him a bowl of stew and pushing him down into the chair. He could have let her drop the stew. He could have shoved her back. But he had never in his life treated a woman like that, and he wasn't prepared to start with this one. He sat.

  Samantha stared in amazement as her mother bustled about, fussing over napkins and biscuits and jam and sending someone out to bring back whatever Talbott favored from the saloon. Sam had threatened the man with a rifle, and he had laughed. Her mother had done nothing but hand him food, and he crumpled. There was a lesson in this, but it wasn't one she was prepared to learn.

  Stalking out, carrying her rifle with her, Sam left the two of them to fight it out. A few of the men followed to help her with the remaining laundry, but most lingered on the porch where her mother and Bernadette were apparently in the first stages of feeding the masses.

  Injun Joe waited at the big vat, staring into the swirling water of clothes with a blank expression. When Sam approached, he looked up and asked without curiosity, "Did he scare you off yet?"

  Now that he was cleaned up and partially sober, Sam could guess his age to be about the same as her father's. A scattering of gray threaded through his sandy hair, but his eyes seemed older. She could tell he didn't have an ounce of Indian in him, but she'd wager he'd lived a hard life longer than she'd been on this earth. She answered him with a degree of respect she hadn't shown Talbott.

  "I daresay mother will scare him off first. What does he have against women?"

  Joe didn't smile. "If there were a whole town full of them, he probably wouldn't care one way or another. But there aren't enough of you to go around, and that's going to cause trouble. I thought your father was brighter than that."

  "You know my father? Do you know where he went?" Sam couldn't keep the eagerness from her voice.

  Joe's face instantly closed. "Met him, if his name's Neely. Don't know anything else."

  He walked off in the direction of the hotel tavern.

  Samantha wanted to throw something at him. Frustration practically steamed out her ears, and men were at the bottom of it. She was going to have to do something or crack under the pressure. She'd give anything if Sloan Talbott would just walk out of that house right now. She'd have him down on the ground faster than he knew what hit him.

  Unable to unleash her frustration in violence, she sauntered over to the shed and Harriet.

  Harriet had long since finished her laundering and was engaged in an energetic game of poker with Jack that involved some rather complicated twists that Samantha didn't wish to question. When Jack won the round with a handful of unrelated cards and had to stand on his hands for reward, Samantha gave into their laughter and forgot about Talbott. Temporarily.

  Sloan hadn't forgotten about her. While the determined Alice Neely bombarded him with food and the ethereally lovely Bernadette fluttered around him with graciousness, he concentrated his thoughts on the redheaded witch with the rifle. She had left him in this menagerie, knowing full well he wouldn't be able to escape without insulting her family and infuriating the entire population. The other damned idiots around here might not know
what these women were doing, but he wasn't blind. One way or another the women would have to go.

  Tomorrow he would figure out how to get rid of them.

  Chapter Six

  Tomorrow came and brought with it the first of the winter rains. Sloan sat on the gallery above the tavern, smoking a cheroot and contemplating the gray downpour turning the streets to running rivers of mud. It was not the most auspicious day to turn a passel of women into the cold.

  But allowing the women to stay in this town full of bored men all winter did not sit well with him. It might serve the women right, but despite all appearances, he wasn't a vindictive man. For their own good, he had to get them out of here.

  Matters might have been a little safer had he allowed the usual whores to take up residence, but he'd turned them all back down the mountain at gunpoint. Since his wife had made it clear that he couldn't differentiate between ladies and whores, he'd decided ten years ago that he could do without the entire female gender. Nothing he'd seen since had changed his mind any.

  The men wouldn't appreciate his turning the women away, but they despised him anyway. A man didn't get where he wanted to go by being liked. He got there by getting things done. For the last ten years Sloan had been getting things done, and he was coming to like it. There were times when he still wished things could have been different, but he could live with them the way they were. He didn't need those women disrupting what he'd built here. That's all women were good for—causing trouble. He didn't need any more of their kind of grief.

  "You're no good at sneaking anymore, Joe," he called over his shoulder to the man coming lightly up the stairs behind him. "Just keep your shooting arm straight."