Big John took a pouch of tobacco and a packet of cigarette papers from the pocket of his fancy coat and adroitly rolled a smoke between his fingers. He and Steven walked, without speaking, over to the board fence, where they stood watching the sun rise over the tops of distant evergreen trees.
Finally, Big John blew a stream of smoke into the misty air. “We both know why I don’t head up drives anymore. Hell, I’m rich.”
Steven chuckled. “That’s reason enough not to do it,” he agreed.
Lenahan studied him pensively with shrewd blue eyes. “When I look at you, Fairfax, I get the feeling I’m just seeing what you want me to see. You’re one hell of a foreman, but you weren’t born to this kind of life, were you?”
Steven took leather gloves from the hip pocket of his denim trousers and pulled them on. “I guess most people aren’t exactly who they represent themselves to be,” he said, avoiding Big John’s gaze.
The rancher went on smoking, and his attention was trained on the agitated cattle about to be driven west to Spokane. “I’ve had a lot of experience at reading folks,” he said easily. “I’ve seen you glance back over your shoulder many a tme, and that Colt of yours is always at the ready. What kind of trouble are you in, and how can I help you?”
“You gave me a job. That’s help enough.”
“A job wasn’t what you needed,” John contended. “You’ve got access to money—lots of it, I’d say.”
Steven sighed. If there was anybody on earth he would have been willing to tell the whole truth to, besides Emma, it would have been Big John Lenahan. But he was leaving on a cattle drive within a few minutes, and there wasn’t time to explain. Even though he was unwilling to call Big John “sir,” he respected him. Lenahan’s opinion was important to Steven. “When I get back,” he said, “we’ll talk.”
The two men shook hands and Steven remounted. With a hoarse shout, he gathered the cowboys, and with a word, silenced their grumbling. He assigned them each a place in relation to the herd, and spoke briefly to the drivers of the two wagons. Frank Deva, a little man with a black handlebar mustache, a dirty buckskin jacket, and tobacco-stained teeth, would serve as scout, since he knew the terrain between Whitneyville and Spokane.
There was much shouting and cursing, and even a few shots fired, and then the herd was moving. Dust rolled up from the hooves of two hundred complaining cattle and, even though he was mounted, Steven could feel the jarring of the earth in every bone and muscle of his body. He rode midway back, on the lefthand side of the herd, and well away, where he could keep an eye on both the beasts and the men driving them. The two wagons lumbered along behind.
The drive would bypass Whitneyville, but only by a quarter of a mile or so. Steven wondered whether Emma was lying awake in bed, listening to the incessant bellowing of the cattle and the thunder of eight hundred hooves, not counting the horses and the mules pulling the wagons.
Deva interrupted his thoughts. “I figure we can reach the Snake River by nightfall, if we push,” the scout said, shouting to be heard over the noise of the drive.
The din was distracting now, but Steven knew from experience that in a few days he wouldn’t be bothered by it. “Then we’ll push,” he called back. “The sooner these lop-eared sons of bitches are the army’s problem, instead of mine, the happier I’m going to be.”
Deva grinned at that, then touched the brim of his hopelessly battered hat in a motion of farewell. A moment later he and his little paint pony were galloping well ahead of the herd.
With a shrill whistle and a slap of his hat against his thigh, Steven drove half a dozen strays back into the herd. The sun wasn’t even high yet, and already his shirt clung to his chest and felt clammy underneath his arms. The dust was enough to blind a man, as well as choke him.
Steven grinned. The drive had begun in earnest.
Emma lay in her bed near dawn, the covers pulled up to her chin, listening to the distant thunder of a passing herd, hearing the mournful cries of the poor beasts as they protested being driven from their winter pastures.
Steven was leaving, and it was very possible that he wouldn’t be back. He might just keep on riding, and put Miss Emma Chalmers right out of his mind forever.
Pure despair filled Emma as she contemplated a lifetime without Steven Fairfax. A lump formed in her throat and tears gathered in her eyes.
She swallowed hard and refused to cry. If she never saw Mr. Steven Fairfax again, she’d be better off, she told herself firmly. Being pleasured in a field of daisies was no way for a good Christian woman to behave anyhow.
He’ll be back, Emma reflected sadly. But she wasn’t at all sure of that. Sure, Steven had taken her virginity, and he’d given her no small amount of gratification in the process, but he hadn’t made any real promises.
She sat up and reached for the small photograph of herself, Lily, and Caroline, which always stood on her bedside table. With the tip of her finger she touched Lily’s image, then Caroline’s, wondering where they were and whether they were loved.
The Lily she remembered was delicate, but full of determination. She’d need a man who knew when to pamper her and when to stand back and let her have her own way. Caroline was headstrong and independent, and probably didn’t need a man at all. Emma suspected her older sister would be hot-blooded, too, and while she wouldn’t have the needs of a weaker woman, she probably wanted someone to hold her and provide a channel for her passion.
Setting the photograph aside, Emma blushed. If Caroline and Lily knew how readily she’d succumbed to Steven Fairfax’s lovemaking, they’d be disappointed in her. They’d think she was just like Kathleen, wild and wanton and totally lacking in self-control.
She lay back down on her feather pillows and tried to think about her mother and sisters, but it was no use. There was no room left in her mind, for Steven filled it to the bursting point. Steven and his brazen skill at driving Emma outside herself, then back in again.
Presently, though, Emma drifted back into an uneasy sleep and began to dream that she wasn’t alone…
Her nightgown had worked its way up around her waist, and Emma didn’t straighten it. Steven stretched out in the bed beside her, naked and strong, and he grinned as he rolled onto his side and kissed her lightly.
Her body was flooded with the same sensations she’d felt when he’d bared her on the island. Her legs parted, and heat surged through her as Steven touched her.
She whimpered, knowing she was dreaming but unable to rise to consciousness, and a soft moan escaped her throat. Steven pulled her nightgown up and off and tossed it aside, exposing her breasts and belly to the light and air.
Emma ordered herself to wake up and get dressed, but to no avail. Another part of her was in charge—the part that governed dreams of both the waking and sleeping varieties. Soon her back arched and she cried out, Steven’s face buried in her neck as he carressed her, and then her senses settled into a tenuous peace. Her cheeks throbbed and she awakened with a shock, stunned to find that Steven wasn’t there at all. In those moments, the loss of him was so poignant that her throat constricted and her eyes stung with tears.
When her breathing had returned to normal and her heart had slowed to its regular pace, Emma got out of bed, put on slippers and a wrapper, and hurried downstairs. It was a long way to go, but she hated using a chamberpot.
She encountered neither Daisy nor Chloe in her travels, which was a good thing. They were both discerning women, and they knew Emma better than did anyone else on earth. One look at her and they would have known exactly what she’d been dreaming about.
Back in her room Emma dressed quickly in a cotton dress with small pink flowers printed on it, then swiftly braided her hair and pinned it up in a coronet suitable for Sunday. Even though she didn’t intend to go to church, Emma was religious in her own way, and she wanted the Lord to know she’d gone to the trouble of dressing up before coming to Him for consolation.
Once she was presentable, Emma slippe
d down the main stairway and out the front door, knowing Daisy would be in the kitchen by now, making fresh coffee for Chloe.
It was a lovely spring day, splashed with sunshine, filled with the scent of budding lilacs. A bed of bright yellow jonquils bloomed audaciously by the front gate, and a breeze whispered in the tops of the maple trees lining the street. In the distance Emma heard the slow, mellow dong-dong-dong of the church bells.
For a moment, sadness possessed her. What a joy it would have been to be a real member of that church, to sit with the choir and sing the old, beloved hymns with all the strength that was in her. But Emma Chalmers wasn’t welcome where Emma Whitney would have been. She turned toward the lake when she reached the corner, and made her way down a tree-lined path to the rocky shore.
The water sparkled crystal blue in the sunshine, while robins and wrens chirped in the trees. The island rose up in the middle of the lake, green with life and as majestic as a cathedral. Emma kicked off her slippers and waded into the cold water. There, in that private and beautiful place, she felt close to God.
She talked to one of her sisters, as she sometimes did when she was especially discouraged, wriggling her toes against the polished pebbles that moved beneath the soles of her feet. “It’s a wretched thing when a man can follow you into your dreams and make love to you there,” she said, speaking to Caroline because she was the eldest of the three. She paused to gather her thoughts, then continued. “I hope you don’t think I’ve done the wrong thing, falling in love with a stranger. It’s just that he’s so handsome, and when I get to thinking about Mr. Fairfax, I’ve got no sense at all. He can wrap me around his little finger as smoothly as he draws that awful forty-five of his. And you know what he said would happen when he gets back, Caroline.”
Emma plodded back to the shore and took a seat on a fallen, bleached-out log. “In case I didn’t mention it,” she went on, “he said he was going to make love to me wherever he happened to find me. Well, you can bet he’ll do exactly that. It might be anywhere. And that isn’t even the worst part: I don’t think I’m going to be able to say no to him.” Despondent, she propped her elbow on one knee and dropped her chin into her palm. The water made a dazzling show before her eyes. “In fact, I know I won’t be able to refuse him.” Unexpected tears blurred the sparkling vision of water and sunlight in front of her. “Tarnation, Caroline, I wish he were here right now.”
The birds continued to sing, and the lakewater lapped quietly at the shore. In the sights and sounds around her, Emma saw and heard the voice of a loving God. AThe birds ense of destiny and assurance filled her.
She sat for a long time on the fallen log, thinking and dreaming and hoping. Then Emma put her slippers back on her sandy feet and started toward home. Daisy would be cooking breakfast by now, and she was hungry.
The herd reached the Snake River at four o’clock that afternoon. After consulting with Frank Deva, Steven decided to make the crossing before they stopped for the night.
Steven had sensed hard feelings among the men from the first; now he saw them reflected clearly in their eyes. He understood their position—after all, he’d come out of nowhere and been hired as foreman, while many of them had worked for Big John a decade or longer. He had no intention of explaining his qualifications for the job, however; he was head of the outfit and that was all that mattered.
He gave the order to drive the cattle across the river, and one of the men rode forward and spat on the ground.
“We ain’t crossin’ here,” he said. He was a tall, slim man with fair hair and hard eyes. “Two, three miles downriver the water’s shallower.”
Steven swung out of the saddle to stand on the ground, and the dissenter did the same. The other men watched in silence as the two faced each other.
“We’re crossing right here,” Steven said quietly.
The drover shook his head stubbornly. “No, sir. I can’t swim. I ain’t takin’ the chance.”
Steven was calm. “Then you’d better ride on back to the ranch and pick up your pay. Taking chances is part of the job.”
The cowboy’s weathered face contorted with quiet, slow-burning hatred. “I ain’t no coward, if that’s what you’re hintin’ at. No, sir, Lem Johnson ain’t no yellow-bellied coward.”
Exasperated, Steven scanned the weary, dust-coated faces of the other riders. There were ominous black clouds forming in the distant sky, and the air was muggy, electric with the portent of the coming storm. “Any of the rest of you have any trouble following my orders?” he asked.
No one responded, but out of the corner of his eye, Steven saw Johnson coming at him.
He waited until the last moment, then caught the cowboy square in the belly with his right fist. Johnson expelled the air in his lungs and then swung on Steven, who blocked the first punch and caught the second, an uppercut to his chin.
Johnson might have been scared of deep water, but he was no weak sister. The blow was only slightly less jarring than the kick of a mule, and Steven figured a couple of his teeth were probably loose.
That made him mad, and he lunged at Johnson, gripping the cowboy’s ears like the handles of a jug as they went down.
Heedless of the pain in his ribs, Steven proceeded to beat the hell out of Johnson. It didn’t bother him a bit that he had to take a battering in the process.
When he got to his feet, Johnson stayed down. He lay writhing on the ground, muttering. “Goddam Reb—fights dirty—”
Steven found his smashed hat, slapped it against his thigh, causing dust to fly, and put it back on his head. “Any of the rest of you Yankees afraid of the water?” he demanded.
No one answered. The men simply turned and went back to their work, while Johnson scrambled to his feet, dusted himself off, and mounted his horse. “We’ll see what Big John has to say about you firin’ ol’ Lem Johnson,” he threatened. “We’ll just see.”
The crossing was not easy for Steven to orchestrate, with two hundred cattle, two wagons with teams, and eleven cowboys on horseback to think about, but it was accomplished and the men set up camp on the other side.
Wood was gathered and a big fire was built. The Chinese cook promptly set about making supper.
The mood among the men was easier now, and a little friendlier. All the same, Steven kept his eyes open. Experience—both during the war and after it—had taught him to expect the unexpected.
The cook dished out beans and biscuits just as the sun was setting, and he had plenty of takers. While half the men were eating, the other half were out riding herd. Steven ate with the second group, returned his plate to the chuck wagon, and rounded the far wagon, intending to relieve himself.
He was in the process when he heard, quite distinctly, a sneeze from inside the wagon. Frowning, he finished his business and rebuttoned his trousers. By his best guess, all the men were either out with the herd, or finishing up their food.
Tossing back the flap at the rear of the wagon, he peered inside. It was dark, though the light from the fire flickered and glowed against the canvas.
“Who’s there?” he asked impatiently. If there was one thing he didn’t have time for, it was a greenhorn with the grippe or some equally asinine malady.
Another sneeze was the reply, and he saw a hesitant shadow move against the canvas.
Instinctively, Steven drew his pistol and cocked it. “You’d better state your name and your business,” he warned.
“Don’t shoot!” cried a feminine voice.
Steven adjusted the pistol and sheathed it in his holster. He would have known that wheedling voice anywhere. “Joellen? What the hell are you doing here?”
She fumbled her way to the rear of the wagon. Although Steven couldn’t see her face, he knew she was crying. It was obvious, too, that she was shivering with cold and fear. “I wanted to be with you,” she said, as Steven lifted her down to the ground, setting his teeth against the protest in his rib cage. “I knew if you just spent some time with me, you’d find out
I’m the perfect woman for you.”
He swore, and would have turned away except that she was crying. “Didn’t you even bring a coat?” he asked, running his eyes over her smudged white blouse and soggy black riding skirt.
Joellen shook her head miserably and sniffled. ‘I didn’t think I’d need one—after all, it’s almost summer. But then, when we were crossing the river, water poured into the wagon and I got wet.”
Steven swore again and jammed one hand through his hair. It was too late to take Joellen back across the river; she’d probably get pneumonia if he tried it. And he didn’t know whether he could trust the men if he left her alone with them. “Are you hungry?” he demanded.
“Yes,” she whimpered.
Steven caught her hand roughly and dragged her back to the fire. The eyes of the men who were taking the second watch sliced to her and then to each other. Although nobody dared make a comment with Steven present, the air seemed charged. Joellen’s presence was a dangerous distraction.
To make matters worse, the wind was up and there was thunder booming in the night air, making the cattle nervous. The storm Steven had hoped would pass them by was about to break.
He settled Joellen down on an upturned barrel near the fire and went to the chuckwagon for beans and a biscuit. He shoved the blue enamel plate at her and swept the circle of men with his eyes, daring any one of them to comment.
“Eat!” he barked, and when Joellen lifted her spoon to her mouth with a trembling hand, he took the blanket from his bedroll and laid it over her shoulders.
It was Frank Deva who first dared to speak. “Her daddy’s going to be spitting nails when he finds out she’s gone.”
Steven could well picture Big John’s reaction. He only had to imagine having a daughter of his own to bring all the dangerous emotions to mind. He wondered which, if any, of the men he could trust to take Joellen back to the ranch in the morning, while the herd went on.
A couple of the boys chuckled in anticipation of Big John’s wrath, rightly figuring that it would be directed at Steven Fairfax.
Emma and the Outlaw Page 17