by Tess LeSue
Thank goodness they hadn’t dressed Anna as a nun, considering he’d met her already. That might have had him doubting Emma and Calla too, for if one nun was a fake, why not all? She guessed it was a stroke of fortune they hadn’t found a nun’s habit in Ella’s supplies, after all. Clearly, the men of Mariposa didn’t fancy being told that they were very naughty boys. Emma and Calla had settled on dressing Anna up like a grand Spanish lady instead.
“But I don’t look a lick like a Mexican,” Anna had protested, as they’d buttoned her into the high-necked black gown. It glittered with jet beads and was fancier than anything Anna had worn even when she’d been whoring in her youth. Which wasn’t hard, as she’d been a garden-variety backroom kind of whore, and not the kind that belonged in a fancy wedding cake whorehouse like La Noche. She’d hated whoring with every fiber of her being and was glad years ago to give it up and be a cook instead. It was Seline who’d first convinced Dolly to employ her in the kitchen all those years ago in Missouri. Seline who’d patiently taught her how to cook, suffering through countless charred dinners and incinerated loaves of bread, defending her fiercely to Dolly, even when she couldn’t produce an edible meal. You’d best get her up to scratch, the madam had told Seline, or it’s your pay I’ll start docking.
Everyone starts somewhere, Seline would insist. Give her time. Seline had never given up on her. Because of Seline, Anna could get herself a job wherever she went—and one that didn’t require her to be flat on her back. And when she’d come west, Seline had fixed her up quick smart with a job here in Mariposa. Anna only let herself be crammed into this ridiculous glittering dress because she trusted Seline. Sister Emma, she corrected herself. She trusted Sister Emma. If Emma wanted her to play at being a grand foreign lady, she supposed she’d do it.
“You aren’t going to be Mexican,” Calla had told Anna, fussing with the mantilla. “You’re Spanish. A grand Spanish lady who was widowed on the journey to the New World and is now joining her sister at the convent in Magdalena.”
“But I don’t look Spanish.”
“Now you do.” Calla yanked the black lace mantilla over Anna’s face. “You are Doña Anna del Castillo.” She’d stepped away with a flourish.
“But I don’t speak Spanish!”
“Then don’t speak,” Emma suggested.
None of that was going to be a problem now, Emma thought. Not if Tom and Anna had already met. No fancy dress and black lace veil would convince him Anna-the-cook was Anna-the-grand-lady if she’d served him biscuits only a few hours before. Anna could just be her regular self on the trail and save the Spanish routine for when they passed through towns. Which was a good thing, or she would have had to stay mute for most of the journey.
“He’s drunk,” Calla repeated as Tom Slater gave a rolling snore. “What kind of man gets drunk before meeting a pair of nuns?”
“The kind who meets them out back of a whorehouse,” Emma said tartly. She squatted in front of the drunkard and patted him on the cheek. “Wakey-wakey,” she said as she kept patting him. He stirred irritably and blinked, pushing her hand away.
He frowned as he struggled to focus. Once he had, he jerked and scrambled to his feet. “Oh Christ,” he said. “The nuns!”
“We’d appreciate it if you didn’t blaspheme,” Calla said primly.
“But we’ll forgive you this time.” Emma rose to her feet. My, he was a tall one. She was tall herself and did appreciate a tall man. “I’m Sister Emma,” she said, offering her hand for him to shake. Tentatively, he took it. His hand was big and rough. He was looking a bit bewildered, poor love. He was still too far in his cups to be quite caught up to events. “Never mind about introductions now,” she told him kindly. “We can bother about that kind of thing once the sun’s up and you can see who’s who. Now, where’s your horse?”
“My horse?”
Emma heard Calla groan. Pointedly, she ignored her. “You must have a horse. I’ve not heard of a cowboy without a horse before, and Deathrider did say you were a cowboy.”
“I have a horse.” He lurched off into the darkness.
“We’re all going to die,” Calla said grimly.
“Now what kind of attitude is that?” Emma clucked. “I’ve never known a cowboy who didn’t tie one on now and again. Give him a chance.”
They heard a thud off in the darkness.
Emma winced. “You all right, honey?”
There was a grunt.
Emma didn’t like the looks on Calla’s and Anna’s faces. And she couldn’t quite explain why she felt the need to defend Tom Slater. Perhaps because she’d seen him earlier tonight, looking lean and mean and capable as all hell. Or maybe it was because he’d looked rather adorable as he’d woken up. Or perhaps it was merely a hangover from her feelings for his brother. What did it matter? Emma wasn’t one to dwell. She pushed the thoughts aside and did what she always did: kept on moving.
“Don’t fret,” she reassured the women. “I’m an old hand at traveling. Worst comes to worst, I’m sure I can get us to Magdalena just fine.”
Neither of them looked reassured.
Fortunately, Tom Slater chose that moment to return. He was mounted on a sturdy paint, leading a packhorse behind him. Even drunk, he was easy in the saddle. He looked like he lived on a horse. Which he probably did.
“Are you ready?” he asked. His voice was gravelly and low.
“I was born ready, sugar.” Emma shooed the women. “Calla, you drive the wagon. I’m going to ride.” She’d had wagons enough on the trail out from Missouri and didn’t plan to spend much time rattling around on that hellish contraption. Not that riding horseback in the black habit was much more pleasant. Saddles weren’t designed for nuns. Or rather, nuns weren’t designed for saddles. She had to hike the habit up and bunch it around her like a woolen blanket; needless to say, it wasn’t the weather for woolen blankets. She’d worn a pair of buckskin breeches under the habit, which made things hotter but at least saved her from chafing against the saddle. Her sweet little mare skittered as she tried to settle herself. Emma gave her a reassuring scratch.
“Everyone ready?” she asked, once Calla had tied her horse to the back of the wagon and she and Anna had clambered up beside Winnie.
“Ready, boss.”
“Wonderful. Mr. Slater? Would you like to lead?” Emma turned a bright smile his way. Not that he could see it in the darkness.
“Don’t call me that,” he growled.
Well. So far he lacked Luke’s charm. He was more like Matt. Kind of surly. She pursed her lips. Shame. “What shall I call you?”
“Just Tom.” He wheeled and flicked his reins, leading them away from the stable and the whorehouse and the rough old town of Mariposa, and into the darkness and the wild.
* * *
• • •
“JUST TOM” DIDN’T speak for the rest of the night, or well into the next morning. If he hadn’t carried a lantern, they would have lost him in the darkness. He rode too far ahead to speak to and didn’t show the slightest interest in them. Emma wondered if he’d fallen asleep in the saddle.
“Friendly sort, isn’t he?” Calla said dryly.
“He seemed nice enough this afternoon,” Anna protested. “He was sweet to Winnie.”
Was he now? That made Emma feel better. Maybe it was just the drink that made him surly. “I’m sure we don’t make such a great first impression ourselves,” she said, striving for cheerfulness.
“His first impression was fine,” Calla giggled, prompting thoughts of him pouring water over his hard, naked body. “It’s his second that could do with some improvement.”
Third, Emma corrected silently. Her second impression of Tom Slater was just as good as the first. She remembered him standing behind Deathrider in the saloon, his gaze smoldering as it devoured her naked body.
“Still,” Calla contin
ued, “any man who looks that good deserves a second chance.”
“Amen, Sister.” Emma laughed and settled in for a long night in the saddle. And it was a very long night. Time lost all meaning in the solid darkness; it was eerie riding when you could hardly see. Emma’s mare, Bessie, picked her way carefully alongside the wagon. They followed a rough trail, the sound of the wagon rattling loudly in the open sprawl of the countryside. Once, they heard the terrifying scream of a bobcat in the distance. The mules got skittish, and Bessie danced under Emma nervously.
“That ole cat isn’t interested in us,” Emma soothed, trying to keep herself calm as much as the mare. Lord, but she was tired. She and Calla had done some hard miles these last few days. She didn’t know how Calla was feeling, but she for one was as sore as a kicked kitten. She’d kill for a bed right now. A proper one; not the kind of catch-as-catch-can bed you found in bunkhouses and outposts, but the kind with a fat mattress and feather pillows. The kind like she’d had back in her room in Moke Hill.
Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers. At least she was well away from Hec Boehm. Hopefully. She couldn’t help but glance behind her. Thinking of him felt like summoning the devil. Her plan had seemed like such a great one back in Moke Hill. But now, out here on the dark trail, headed to Mexico of all places, she wondered if she’d taken leave of her senses. She had no doubt word of Hec’s wild-goose chase would have made the rounds of the goldfields by now. Miners were terrible gossips. He’d be completely humiliated, the butt of every joke from Sutter Creek to San Francisco. How gleeful they’d be that the mighty Hec Boehm had gone sniffing after a whore like a dog after a bitch in heat, while the whore in question had been laughing at him the entire time, playing with him like he was a mouse. Every saloon he entered would erupt with mockery when he showed his face. Which had seemed like a wonderful idea at the time . . .
Justine had been right. She hadn’t thought this through. As they rode through the darkest heart of the night, she felt the cold horror of what she’d done wrap around her. Dear God, she’d made him a laughingstock. And of all the men she’d ever met, Hec Boehm was the most humorless, the one who could least abide ridicule. His pride was bigger than his fat head.
Despite the heat, she sank into the thick black habit, chilled to the bone. What if she could never come out of hiding? What if she had to be a nun for the rest of her life? As the night wore on, her mood grew bleaker. What if she had to stay in Mexico? If she had to keep her head shaved? If she had to grow old without ever wearing a pretty dress again? She got so lost in the tangle of her gloomy thoughts that she didn’t notice the darkness was ebbing until Tom Slater came to a sudden stop. The night had faded to an ashy predawn, and the horizon was a blend of smudgy charcoal; the chaparral was emerging from the darkness as blurs of slightly lighter gray.
“We’ll rest here for a few hours,” Tom Slater told them roughly. He threw his bedroll on the ground and was flat out and snoring before Calla had even brought the wagon to a standstill.
“I guess he was tired,” Emma said mildly. He hadn’t so much as watered his poor horses. Even though she was gritty-eyed with exhaustion, she took care of it for him, since she had to water her own animals anyway.
Calla watched disapprovingly. “I’m glad we’re not paying him for his services,” she sniffed. “Even free, he’s overpriced.”
“Let’s give him a chance to sober up,” Emma suggested, “before we go making judgments.”
“We’ve been riding for hours,” Calla muttered as she helped Emma pitch their tent. “If he’s not sober yet, he might well never be.”
Emma ignored her muttering. Tom Slater had been pretty sodden when they’d found him behind the stable. A few hours was hardly likely to sober him up. Emma guessed he’d only stopped riding because the early teeth of a hangover had sunk into him. That man was going to wake up with one pretty mean headache. Especially when the sun came up and hit him full in the face. Taking pity on him, she tethered his horse on the sunrise side of him, to block the sun, and gently rested his hat over his face.
“Aren’t you going to sleep?” Calla asked, when Emma rummaged in the wagon for her sourdough starter.
“As soon as I’ve fed my yeast,” she said, yawning. She’d brought her starter halfway across the country and wasn’t about to starve it to death now. She scraped out half into a bowl and made short work of whipping up a dough for when they woke. It wouldn’t have much time to rise, but the weather was so hot it should puff up enough to make a decent loaf. Once the dough was wrapped and rising, she hastily stirred flour and water into the starter and put the fat cork back in the neck of the clay pot. She made sure it was safely tucked away in the wagon and then crawled into the tent, which was far too crowded. They hadn’t provisioned for Anna and Winnie; they’d have to do something about that in the next town, she thought as she wrestled her way out of the heavy black habit and fought to get the coif off her head. Feeling much cooler, she wriggled into place on the bedding, pushing Winnie’s foot out of her face. Another tent certainly wouldn’t go astray either.
“I was wondering,” she said thoughtfully, as she struggled to get comfortable, “if it would be worth seeing how well Anna’s disguise works . . .”
“What are you talking about?” Calla’s voice was muffled. “You know he’s already seen her.”
“Exactly. He’s the perfect person to try the disguise on. If he doesn’t recognize her and he’s already met her . . .”
“You were the one who said it wouldn’t work.”
“No one’s going to take me for a lady!” Anna groaned.
“Don’t be so negative.” Emma gave Anna’s leg a pat. At least she thought it was Anna’s leg. It might have been Calla’s. “You make a wonderful señora. And it can’t hurt to try, can it?”
“If he stays this sauced, he’s not likely to recognize his own horse, let alone Anna,” Calla muttered.
Emma giggled. “He’s pretty far gone, isn’t he?”
“How can you laugh at a time like this?”
Emma rolled her eyes. “How can you not?”
8
“I GUESS I GOT some apologizing to do.” It had taken Tom most of the day to work up to an apology. It had been mortifying to have the nuns emerge from the tent this morning to find him losing his stomach in the sagebrush. He hadn’t been able to look them in the eye afterward. He had felt the disapproval coming off them in waves, particularly the little one.
He was disgusted with himself. Not that he wasn’t as prone to a night out drinking as the next man, particularly at the end of a long cattle drive after weeks on the dusty, hot trail. But this hadn’t been social or relaxing or fun. This had been a pure drowning of sorrows; the kind of drinking session Tom abhorred. He hated to see men drowning their problems in their cups. You saw too many men, both on the trail and in the goldfields, who couldn’t handle their booze. They got liquored up on a nightly basis, blowing every cent they earned. As far as Tom could see, it caused more problems than it drowned.
And holy hell, had he been drunk. He hadn’t been sauced like that in years. He had vague memories of riding queasily through the night, the sagebrush rising up like beasts in the darkness. He didn’t remember stopping, but they clearly had, because when he had cracked his eyelids this morning to the searing morning light, he’d seen a canvas tent neatly pitched and the animals pegged and watered. He felt horrible when he woke, but it was nothing compared to how he felt when he sat up. It didn’t take more than a moment for him to realize he was going to upend his stomach. He tripped over the tangle of his bedroll as he stumbled into the chaparral for what privacy he could find. To his mortification, it was the sound of his vomiting that woke the nuns.
“Mr. Slater? Are you all right?”
He’d groaned and screwed his eyes shut. Please don’t come over, he prayed. But of course one of them did. What else could he expect from nuns? Sick me
n were their stock-in-trade.
“I’m fine,” he’d grunted, staying crouched behind the bush. But of course he wasn’t fine. He’d spent a good half an hour emptying his stomach, each retch making him feel lower than a bug. He was painfully aware that they could hear him.
To their credit, they did their best to save his pride. The one who’d come to check on him left a water flask within easy reach, as well as a pail of water and a washcloth for him to wipe up with when he was done. Then she retreated, and before long he heard soft voices, the crackling of a fire, and then he could smell coffee. Once the sickness had subsided, he crouched in the dust with the damp washcloth on the back of his neck, trying to breathe. After a while, the smell of coffee didn’t turn his stomach anymore, and actually started smelling pretty good.
He was still sweating hard and feeling poisonous when he emerged shamefaced from the bushes. He kept his gaze fixed firmly on his toes.
“We’d best ride out,” he said. His tongue was thick in his dry mouth. “We’re still too close to Mariposa for comfort.” He paused. “Probably.” He was humiliated to realize he had no idea how far from Mariposa they actually were, or if they were even on the right path. He cleared his throat. “I just need to scout ahead quickly,” he told them. “If you can have everything packed up and be ready to go by the time I get back, that would be good.”
“Don’t you want something to eat before you go? Or some coffee?”
His stomach lurched. Oh God, no. Not again. He couldn’t vomit in front of them again. He turned on his heel and gave saddling his paint his full attention.
“Do you think he’ll be back?” he heard one of them sigh as he rode off. He just about died of shame. What kind of man did they take him for? His mother would be turning over in her grave.
Tom didn’t know what had gotten into him. Things had seemed so simple on the road from Frisco to Mariposa. Find Deathrider and warn him, and then take him on down to Mexico. He hadn’t bargained on posses and nuns and Deathrider stealing his name. But, if he was honest with himself, that wasn’t what had caused the drinking. He hadn’t been thinking about any of that as he knocked back the whiskey. He hadn’t been thinking about much of anything at all; he’d just been trying to stop that tornado inside of him, the one that just kept on sucking at him, stripping him of life and turning him into storm wreckage. It didn’t make no sense to be feeling as wild and empty as he did. Nothing had happened to bring it on; it was just there. It grew every day, a sense that nothing mattered, and that he was all alone and lost.