by Tess LeSue
“So I’ll leave you then! Which do you want?” A vein was pulsing in his temple.
“Neither! I want you to wear the damn dress and escort us safely to Mexico. It’s only your stupid pride that’s keeping us in danger!”
“My stupid . . . you name me one man who’d do this!”
She bit her tongue. He didn’t need to know that they’d dressed Micah up like a whore.
“Exactly!” He sounded far too smug.
But he had no idea who he was dealing with. She had no scruples.
“Winnie!” Emma marched over to the wagon, where Winnie sat watching their discussion with wide eyes. Emma held out her arms. “Come here, honey.”
“What are you doing?” Tom sounded horrified. Good.
Emma scooped Winnie into her arms and carried her toward Tom. The girl was far too old to be carried, but the effect was what mattered. Winnie’s long legs slapped against hers as she walked.
Catching the scent of what she was up to, Tom’s eyes narrowed menacingly. “Don’t you dare,” he warned.
Winnie burrowed her face into Emma’s neck, keeping a wary eye on Tom.
“Don’t do it.” He stood his ground as she approached, looking blacker by the moment.
“What do you think will happen to her if you abandon us here?” Emma was merciless.
“I’m not abandoning her!”
“What do you think will happen to her if we’re captured by the men hunting you?”
“This is low,” he growled, “real, real low.” He turned his back on her, and she heard him muttering under his breath.
Winnie frowned and looked up at Emma. Emma winked at her. “There, there, honey. I’m sure Tom doesn’t really want to sacrifice you to the wild men.”
He snapped around, glaring at her. Ah, now the volcano was starting to steam. Had she gone too far?
Or not far enough?
“I’m sure she’ll understand when she’s older that you couldn’t compromise your manhood and wear a dress,” Emma needled him. “Not even to save our virtues . . . and our lives.”
“Give me that.” He snatched the black dress off her. Then he jabbed a finger at her. “That was low. And you’re a nun.”
Emma tried not to grin as he stomped off with the dress. “That, honey, is a real man,” she told Winnie, dropping a kiss on her head.
Winnie pulled a face. “I’m hungry.”
“Me too. What’s say we make some biscuits? We’ll make extra for Mr. Slater. He’s earned them.”
12
THE FIRST PLACE they came to was Gran Rancho de Gato. It was a massive ranch of more than fifty thousand acres. Tom steered them toward it because de Gato was infinitely preferable to El Lugar Rico, which bordered it. Don Graciano Machado, the ranchero of El Lugar Rico, was infamous for his ruthlessness, and Tom wasn’t risking a run-in with him. Machado wasn’t scared of man or God. The Lugar Rico land had been seized from the Church during the secularization of the 1830s, and Machado lived in the old mission, where he sat like a desert king, reaping the profits from the land. Out here, he was a law unto himself, one not pleased by the encroaching americanos, who had been chipping away at his rights since the end of the Mexican-American War. More than a few Americans went missing on his land, never to be heard from again. No, Tom thought, eyeing the eastern horizon warily, best to keep well away. Especially in light of the way his luck was running.
Because, as if the posses and the death threats and the nuns and the heat weren’t bad enough, the devil winds had started up too, kicking up dust and making the blazing day even hotter. His ridiculous getup was torture. The winds set the dress against him; the skirt blew up and smacked him in the face, no matter how many times he forced it down, and the black lace veil kept trying to strangle him. That stubborn nun wouldn’t let him take it off, even though they were in the middle of nowhere and who the hell was going to see his face all the way out here? He could barely see through the goddamn thing. And he needed to see. Not just to keep watch for the posses and lynch mobs and bounty hunters, but also because he was anxious about wildfires. It was perfect conditions for them, and they were deadly. It was hard to watch for distant smoke when the veil made the whole world black and lacy. He put up with it for a while, but when the devil winds got so strong they were whistling in his ears, he tore the veil off. The nun set up complaining, but he ignored her. He’d rather be dead of a bullet than dead of a fire. And he was no good as a guide if he couldn’t damn well see.
“I’ll put it back on if we see people coming,” he’d snapped.
So it was a relief when they rode onto de Gato land. Tom had been increasingly itchy at the thought of meeting Machado’s vaqueros as they traversed the borderlands. His gaze moved restlessly over the sagebrush and chaparral, scanning for movement. Usually, you’d see a rider coming by the dust rising in their wake, but the winds meant dust was already flying.
“De Gato belongs to Don Joaquín José Rey,” Tom told Emma as they rode on. “He should be hospitable enough. We won’t reach the hacienda for a day or two, but we’ll probably run into some of his vaqueros before then.” He sighed as he realized her eyes had a suspicious shine. “If you keep laughing, I’m taking this goddamn dress off.”
“I just forgot how pretty you look without your veil. And I’d thank you not to blaspheme,” the wretched woman said, even as a giggle escaped her. “And I’m not laughing. It’s just the dust getting to me.”
Why the hell had he given in and worn this wretched thing? He pulled at the neckline of the suffocating dress. It dug into him in the most irritating places. His armpits were rubbed raw. He felt like a damn fool. He was a damn fool.
“When we stop somewhere, I’ll see if I can make some adjustments,” she said as she watched him wrestle with it.
“The hell you will,” he snapped. “I ain’t planning on staying in this thing for long, so there’s no point in making it comfortable.” They didn’t have a mirror, so he couldn’t see how ridiculous he looked, but he could imagine. He didn’t know how women wore these things in this kind of heat. He was sweating like a pig. They’d even stuck gloves on him; he’d sweated them through, and it was a deeply unpleasant feeling. They were nothing at all like the work gloves he wore when he was with the herd. And anyways, work sweat was clean sweat. This was something else again, like being locked in a box in the full sun. He felt suffocated and helpless. “I don’t see why I have to wear gloves when there’s no one even about,” he grumbled.
“You’re the one who said we might run into vaqueros,” she told him with a maddening show of patience. “And your knuckles are too hairy to pass for a woman’s. You might have time to put the veil back on if we stumble into people, but you certainly ain’t got time to put on the veil and the gloves. One or the other. You choose.”
“You ain’t very kind for a nun,” he said sullenly.
“I’m the exact right amount of kind for a nun,” she disagreed. “But you ain’t in need of kindness; you’re in need of a damn good bucking up. It’s only a dress. Imagine how I feel, in this heavy old thing.”
Startled, he took in her black habit. “It looks hot,” he grunted.
She nodded, looking far too peppy, in his opinion. The woman could keep on shining even on the most miserable of days. Tom didn’t know how she did it.
“How can you be so cheerful when it’s so goddamn hot?” he demanded. He sounded like a sulky boy, which irritated him even more.
For the first time, he noticed how her fingers worried at her coif. She was sun flushed and damp with perspiration and was clearly trying to find a way to get some air against her hot head. He could feel the sweat running down his own bare neck. Imagine how oppressive her funny hat must be. He yanked irritably at the cloth pinching his armpits, uncomfortable with both the dress and his thoughts. He was of a mind to get his knife and just slash the underarms of the d
ress, so he could move. It might let some of the goddamn sweat out too. He reached for his canteen. He couldn’t drink enough to make up for the moisture he was losing.
“You have to stop blaspheming,” she warned him. “I’m getting mighty sick of telling you off for it.”
“So don’t tell me off.”
“If I don’t tell you off, Calla tells me off.”
“Does she now?” He darted a glance back at the wagon. Sister Calla was rattling along on the bench, looking peaky from the heat.
Sister Emma followed his gaze and sighed. “I should swap with her for a spell. She’s good to drive all the time; it’s a god-awful way to spend the day.”
“Don’t blaspheme,” he needled.
“God doesn’t mind when I do it. I’m a nun.” She turned and trotted back to the wagon to free Sister Calla.
Tom felt a pang as he watched her go. He liked riding with her. She was quick-witted and sassy and made the hours pass; without her, there was just the heat and the winds and this foul dress strangling him.
Once Sister Emma had spelled her, Sister Calla rode out to join him, chattering in Spanish about Magdalena and all the people they had in common. But it just wasn’t the same.
* * *
• • •
“TAKE IT OFF.”
“What?” That night in camp, Tom frowned up at Sister Emma, who was clicking her fingers at him.
“Take the dress off, and I’ll see if I can fix it so it doesn’t suffocate you.”
“No.” He wasn’t about to undress in front of her. He just wanted to be left alone. He turned back to his whittling. He was only whittling in the first place so he didn’t stare at her, and now here she was, disturbing him. And “disturbing” was the word for it. He’d found his gaze wandering all evening, following her every move. She was a tall woman. Regal. Like a queen. She moved through the camp, straight-backed and graceful, her heavy black skirts flowing around her. Unlike a queen, though, she worked. Hard. She never asked anyone to do a task she wouldn’t do herself, and as a result, Calla and Anna respected her and did everything she asked, without complaint. She had the camp in impeccable order every night, with fresh food cooking and coffee percolating, and everyone’s comfort cared for. And she did it with a smile. She laughed and teased and turned the weary day’s end into a pleasure. In his whole life, he’d never seen a face as animated as hers, he thought as he watched her. Her mouth was sharp cornered and mobile, and her eyebrows seemed to express every passing feeling. He could have watched her all day and never grown tired of it. Now and then she caught him looking, and one eyebrow would go up. He’d snatch his gaze away, but before long, it roamed right back.
They’d camped by a stand of junipers, out of the worst of the winds, and Sister Emma had set Winnie to gathering a pile of the deadwood for the fire. Tom went along to help her, to get away from the nun for a bit. If he didn’t stop staring, she was liable to think him softheaded. Besides, the kid needed help. She was a little scrap of a thing, and it panged him to see her struggling with an armful of wood. The least he could do was help her. Winnie was jumpy around him, so he made sure to maintain his distance and to keep them in sight of the nuns at all times. He didn’t talk. He figured a jumpy child was a bit like an unbroken horse: at first you just wanted it to be comfortable with you being nearby. The longer he was around, the more likely it was she’d relax a little. Until then, he was happy enough to gather wood in silence. Juniper was good wood for whittling, and he had sifted through it as he went, looking for some decent hunks to work on. He needed something to distract him so he wouldn’t stare at Emma. But even as he thought about staring, his gaze had drifted, finding Emma at her bread.
She had the same routine every night, like clockwork: as soon as she’d helped Calla and Anna pitch camp, she fed her starter, kneaded her bread and set bowls of dough out to prove. Sometimes she sang to herself while she worked. He didn’t think she realized she was doing it. She had a pretty voice, sweeter than you’d expect from a woman with a tongue as sharp as hers. It drifted through the campsite and made the closing darkness seem almost homey. The songs she sang were as unexpected as the sweetness of her voice. There were no hymns or churchy things; in fact, some of the tunes were downright lewd.
When she had started on the lewd ones was about when he had resolved to spend the night with his eyes fixed on his whittling.
“Don’t be so difficult,” she scolded him now as she clicked her fingers for him to hand over the dress. He kept his eyes on his knife and ignored her, hoping she’d go away. Of course she didn’t. She was the stubbornest woman he’d ever met.
“I don’t need you to fix it,” he muttered, shaving the wood with increasing agitation.
“Think of it this way: it means you don’t have to wear it for a while.”
He stopped whittling and squinted up at her. Actually, that seemed like a pretty fine argument. “What if someone comes?” he asked suspiciously. “You’ve been carping at me all day about being seen.”
“Carping? I don’t carp.”
“Bitching, then.” Hell, she was pretty when she got her ire up. “You were all het up about me being seen.”
“Well, if someone comes and you get seen, then I guess you might get shot.”
“I’ll risk it.” As much as he didn’t fancy undressing in front of her, he fancied the hot dress even less.
“Wait!” She was laughing as he tried to pull the dress up and over his head. “You’ll never get it off like that. You’re ruining it!”
Beads had snapped as he yanked, falling to the ground with clattering sounds.
“Now I have to sew the beads back on too,” she complained, but there was no sting to her words. If she had to sew beads, that meant more time he wouldn’t have to wear the damn dress. He contemplated snapping some more off.
“You have to undo all the buttons before you take it off, you dunce,” she scolded him. “Ain’t you never undressed a woman?” She grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him. The feel of her hands sent shock waves through him. He winced. Goddamn it. No. She was a nun. There weren’t going to be any shock waves. There just weren’t. Not if he had anything to say about it.
You don’t notice women, remember? he told himself fiercely. You’re famous for it. Except that he clearly noticed this one. More than noticed. Was fixated. Like a damn fool rabbit frozen in front of a bobcat.
He felt the brush of her fingers though the cloth as she freed the buttons down his back. The dress parted, and he felt the kiss of air against his bare skin. He was immediately aware of every naked inch of his back, and he imagined he could feel her gaze as she looked him over.
“How racy of you, Mr. Slater,” she teased, “not to wear any undergarments.”
He blushed. Which was ridiculous. She meant he wasn’t wearing lady undergarments. The thought of flimsy lady underthings brought images to his mind that had him stiffening. And once the images started, they came like a flood, including memories of that gorgeous whore with the rouged nipples. Hell, no. Not now.
He scowled. Of course he was wearing undergarments. He was still wearing his trousers under the dress, for Pete’s sake. But her words made him feel buck-naked, and he was even more painfully aware of her now.
“All done. You can take it off now,” she laughed, patting him between the shoulder blades. He just about jumped out of his skin.
He got away from her as fast as he could, tossing the dress at her and heading for the other side of the campfire.
“You forgot your whittling,” she called after him.
He didn’t need it. He kept walking, heading for his saddlebags in search of a shirt. He couldn’t be sitting opposite her half-naked.
“You ain’t being very friendly,” she said later, after supper was over and everything had been washed up and packed away. Anna had taken Winnie off to the wagon, whi
ch the women bedded beneath now that the tent was gone. With Winne and Anna abed, the sisters had settled down on either side of the lantern with their sewing. Sister Emma was still adjusting the hideous black gown of strangulation for him, while Sister Calla was sewing a length of navy cloth into a makeshift nun’s habit for Anna. It had been Sister Emma’s idea to disguise Anna as a nun, now that Tom had usurped her Spanish lady costume. That woman sure had a liking for dressing people up as things they weren’t. The thought gave him pause.
“You still mad about wearing the dress? That why you’ve plonked yourself all the way over there?” she asked, as she sucked on the end of a strand of cotton before she threaded it through her needle. “I’d have thought you’d be used to the dress by now.”
“It’s an inhuman contraption.”
She gave him an arch look. “And yet women wear them every day.”
“I’d give anything to be wearing your dress instead of this,” Sister Calla sighed, pulling at her coif. Since his conversation with Emma, Tom had noticed how often they both fussed with their funny hats. The pair of them jammed their fingers between the tight headdresses and their faces every minute or two. They must be uncomfortable as all hell.
“Why don’t you take those things off?” he suggested. “They look powerful hot, and there ain’t no one here but me and the ponies to see.”
They exchanged a tense look. He guessed there was probably a rule about it, taking your funny nun hat off in front of a man. He wondered what they looked like without them. What she looked like. He didn’t even know what color her hair was, he realized. Her eyebrows were brownish, so her hair probably was too. But was it curly or straight? Light brown or dark brown? He found he couldn’t even imagine what she’d look like without the nun hat. In fact, he couldn’t quite imagine what she’d look like in anything but nun clothes. His gaze wandered again, taking in the voluminous billow of Sister Emma’s heavy black habit. It ballooned around her where she sat. He wondered what kind of shape she had under there.