Cactus Flower

by Duncan, Alice

  “Hmm.”

  “In fact, I think you’re kind of skinny.”

  “Here we go,” said Patsy cheerfully, placing two mugs of steaming cocoa on the kitchen table. After setting a thick slab of pound cake and a fork before Nick, she got another mug of cocoa and took her own place at the table, smiling brightly at Nick and Eulalie.

  As much as she loved her sister, Eulalie could have wished Patsy had stayed at the stove a minute longer. Eyeing Nick closely, she tried to determine if he was fibbing or being honest about her state of skinniness. She couldn’t. With a sigh, she said, “Thank you, Patsy.”

  “Yeah,” said Nick. “This looks good.” He forked up a morsel of cake and chewed blissfully.

  Eulalie took a sip of cocoa and wished she’d taken a piece of cake, too. “Delicious cocoa, Patsy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Why don’t you two have some cake?” Nick asked after he’d swallowed his second bite of cake. “It’s really good, and you both need a few more pounds on you.” He squinted at Eulalie. “And if you can’t fit into those costumes, I say that’s a good thing.”

  Eulalie stared at him, astonished. “A good thing? How could that be a good thing? I’d lose my job!”

  Nick ate another bite of cake before he responded. “Yeah. I guess.”

  He didn’t sound as if he considered the loss of her job anything to be worried about, and his attitude irritated Eulalie. “For your information, Nicholas Taggart, I need my job.”

  Patsy patted her hand, which was gripping the table hard. Glancing at her, Eulalie realized she shouldn’t continue the argument, for Patsy’s sake. Drat!

  Nick said, “Huh.” How typical.

  * * * * *

  As Nick polished off his second slice of pound cake, he realized with dismay that he didn’t want to leave Eulalie alone with her sister. He wanted to go back to bed with her and hold her in case she had another nightmare. Damn it, it was his job to protect her, and that included saving her from hideous terrors in the nighttime.

  The trouble was, he didn’t know how to ask her if he could stay. If there was one thing he didn’t want, it was to know that she didn’t care to have him hanging around. And if he asked to stay and she told him to leave, he’d feel like a kicked dog.

  This agreement they had was all well and good as far as it went but, Nick thought bitterly, it didn’t go far enough. True, most of the people in town had figured out that the two of them were together and, therefore, the likelihood that any of the men in town would dare accost her was slight; still, their arrangement felt too damned … temporary. It was an extremely odd fact, but for the first time in his life when contemplating a female, he didn’t like the notion of a brief interlude of passion. Strange as it seemed, and as much as it worried him, he craved more than a temporary alliance with Eulalie Gibb.

  He figured he’d get over it, given enough time—which was the whole point, damn it.

  Well, he guessed it wouldn’t hurt to put the matter to Eulalie. He could turn the matter over to her. Make it seem as if he were doing her a big favor. That was better than having her think he was a lovesick puppy.

  How had he, a strong and independent man who knew better than to allow a woman to determine his happiness, sunk so low? He didn’t have a clue, but he didn’t like it.

  As Patsy rinsed out the mugs and his plate at the sink, Nick leaned across the table and took Eulalie’s hand. He resented her expression of alarm. Nevertheless, he forged onward, “You sure you want me to leave? Are you going to be all right?”

  She gave him one of her more brilliant smiles. “I’ll be fine. Thank you, Nick.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “You won’t have another bad dream?”

  Retrieving her hand, she hugged herself. “I’m … pretty sure I won’t.”

  He made a decision. If she kicked him out on his ear, so be it. He gave her a scowl that he hoped curled her liver. “Nuts. You’re worried. I’ll stay.”

  To his surprise, she didn’t instantly bristle and lash out at him. Rather, she appeared grateful—unless that was his imagination. She said, “Thank you, Nick,” and he guessed he wasn’t imagining things. His heart felt lighter.

  The two of them retired to bed, where Eulalie subsided into his arms as if she were a soft and cuddly kitten instead of a prickly pear. Nick decided he’d worry about the state of his heart and sanity later. Everything felt too right just then for such dismal contemplations.

  * * * * *

  Eulalie was getting mighty tired of singing at the Rio Peñasco Opera House. She didn’t mind singing, but she hated having to parade herself in front of a roomful of salivating men night after night. Her only consolation was that Nick was there. Every night. Sometimes Junius came with him, but Nick himself never, ever allowed her to be alone anymore before that mob.

  Her love for Nick grew every night when she looked out over her whistling, stomping audience and saw him, eyeing her audience as if daring any one of them to step out of line. No one ever did. She considered this a most unfortunate circumstance—not that the men were behaving themselves, but that she loved Nick Taggart more every day.

  It became a habit for the Gibb sisters to have dinner with Nick and Lieutenant Gabriel Fuller—sometimes Junius joined them—and then Nick would walk Eulalie over to the Opera House while Fuller—and sometimes Junius—sat on what passed as the back porch of the little adobe house and chatted, until the men went home.

  “I’m sure you’d rather be alone with Gabriel, Patsy,” Eulalie said one day as she set the table while Patsy stirred the savory stew she was preparing for their evening meal. She had cornbread baking in the oven.

  Patsy laughed softly. “I don’t mind, and neither does Gabriel. In fact, Gabriel has told me more than once that he honors Nick and Junius for being such good guardians for us. He says he feels guilty that he has to be away so much, attending to his duties at the fort.”

  Eulalie noticed that her sister’s cheeks had turned a pretty rosy pink, and she wasn’t sure if the lieutenant or the kitchen’s heat was responsible. She suspected the former. In truth, Gabriel and Patsy seemed to have formed quite a bond. Eulalie prayed that Gabriel wouldn’t turn out to be a false hope. So far, he appeared to be solid as a rock, but Eulalie knew better than to assume anything when it came to men.

  Or women, either, she supposed. The notion surprised her. But Nick had let slip enough tidbits from his childhood to make her realize that men weren’t the only rats in the world.

  Damn his stepmother and those rotten stepsisters of his anyhow! If it weren’t for them, Nick might have asked Eulalie to marry him ere this.

  The thought almost made her drop the plate she held.

  Good Lord, she didn’t mean that! Did she?

  “No,” she murmured aloud. “I didn’t.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  Realizing she’d spoken out loud, Eulalie hastened to say, “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  But it wasn’t nothing. It was something, and that something was completely deplorable. Eulalie Gibb did not need to be married in order for her life to be complete. Such thinking was not merely old fashioned, but faulty into the bargain. All Eulalie had to do was look around her if she found herself doubting it. Why, when she lived in New York City, she might have searched for three weeks before she found a husband who was worth his salt. Even here in Rio Peñasco, an outpost of the frontier, where one would expect men to feel a greater responsibility toward their wives and families than men did back East, she could see evidence that such wasn’t always the case.

  Anyhow, she and Nick Taggart had nothing in common. True, they seemed to share a similar sense of humor. And she’d also discovered that they enjoyed the same books, which had amused her at first. She hadn’t believed anyone living out here in the middle of nowhere could read at all, much less read for pleasure. But Nick did. What’s more, he shared with her. When he and Junius received a shipment of books from S
an Francisco, he’d immediately brought over a copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray for her and Patsy to enjoy. When they were through with it, Nick had swapped Dorian for Arthur Conan Doyle’s latest compilation of Sherlock Holmes stories.

  She was still mulling over the insanity of falling in love with a man who abominated the very thought of marriage when Nick knocked at the kitchen door, and her heart soared. Stupid heart. To make up for it, she was short with him when she greeted him. In point of fact, she didn’t speak at all, but merely glared at him and stepped aside to let him enter.

  He eyed her warily as he removed his hat and came inside.

  “Good evening, Nick,” Patsy called from the stove, where she was scooping stew into a serving dish.

  “How-do, Miss Patsy?” Taking a wide path around Eulalie, he marched to the front door and hung his hat on the stand he’d built for the purpose.

  Eulalie huffed and followed him. Drat the man! Here she was spoiling for a fight, and he was trying to avoid her. He turned away from the hat rack, saw her standing there with her hands on her hips, and he rolled his eyes. Eulalie resented that.

  “What did I do now?” he asked in a resigned, world-weary tone of voice.

  “What do you mean by that?” she demanded, knowing as she said it that she was being unreasonable.

  “You’re in a fuss.”

  “I am not in a fuss!”

  “Whatever you say.” And he walked around her to go into the kitchen.

  The evening didn’t get any better after Gabriel Fuller arrived. He and Patsy were as cozy as two lovebirds together. Now he, Eulalie thought bitterly, didn’t seem to mind showing his affection for a woman. He didn’t seem to think that all women were sly and untrustworthy. He didn’t even care that Patsy, the object of his attentions, was badly scarred.

  Neither did Nick, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that Eulalie Gibb, a woman who until recently, had believed herself solid, sensible, and infinitely sane, had allowed herself to care deeply for a man who didn’t care deeply for her. It was a lowering realization, and she didn’t like it one little bit.

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t seem to do anything about it. Her heart refused to be dictated to by her brain. She wished the two would coordinate better. They always had in the past. Neither her heart nor her brain had suffered a single qualm when she’d married sweet Edward Thorogood. She should have thought they’d function better as she grew older and gained experience, but they clearly didn’t, drat them.

  She endeavored to maintain a cheerful demeanor with Patsy and Gabriel during supper. She couldn’t seem to help being cold to Nick, probably because she felt somehow cheated by him—which was ridiculous, and she knew it. Understanding her own culpability only aggravated her further and made her snappish. It occurred to her that Nick couldn’t win with her that night, and that made her angrier yet.

  The most annoying circumstance of all was that Nick seemed merely amused by her foul mood. He was impeccably polite to her all during the meal, and spoke kindly to Patsy, and was even gracious to Gabriel, which was a departure. Nick generally treated the handsome lieutenant with some degree of condescension.

  But the uncomfortable—for Eulalie, although everyone else seemed to enjoy it—meal ended at last, and Nick waited patiently while Eulalie donned her hat and grabbed a shawl. They set out for the Opera House in silence, Eulalie stamping along the dirt road next to Nick, who was perfectly relaxed and comfortable, curse him.

  He left her in her dressing room. She got the impression he was eager to escape her bad temper, and she had an irrational impulse to throw something at him.

  “What in the world is wrong with you tonight, Eulalie Gibb?” she demanded of her reflection in the mirror.

  But she knew the answer to her question. She was feeling persecuted and abused because she’d fallen in love with Nick Taggart. How the mighty have fallen, she mused as she wriggled into her tight sapphire-blue costume with the dyed-to-match ostrich feathers. The blue went well with her eyes, and she harbored the no-doubt futile hope that Nick would be impressed with her looks. Not that he hadn’t seen enough of her often enough to know what she looked like. And if he hadn’t fallen madly in love with her by this time, she didn’t suppose seeing her all gussied up tonight would tip the scale.

  Frustrated almost beyond bearing, she hurled one of her high-topped shoes across the room. It banged against the far wall with a satisfying thwack, and she decided that she felt calm enough to perform. She’d allow herself another tantrum later.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nick didn’t have any idea in the world why Eulalie was mad at him. Not that she needed a reason. Nick had learned long, long ago that women were totally irrational and prone to behave in odd ways for no discernible motive.

  This fit of temper on Eulalie’s part kind of surprised him, though. In spite of their rocky beginnings—which, he’d finally admitted to himself, weren’t entirely her fault—he’d begun to think of her as a woman unlike the others he’d known in his life. And, although he hated to own up to it, it would break his heart to discover she was just like the other members of her sex.

  “Hell,” he muttered as he trotted down the stairs to the saloon. Violet greeted him warmly.

  “Never see you anymore, Nicky,” she purred, rubbing her bosom against his arm.

  “Yeah, I guess not,” Nick said noncommittally. He didn’t want to tell Violet that she wouldn’t see him again, either, in the way she meant. After having begun his affair with Eulalie, the notion of bedding another woman didn’t appeal to him. Which was one more indication that he’s lost his mind, he supposed. Shit.

  “I miss you, Nick,” Violet said wistfully.

  “Aw, hell, Violet, you see me all the time.” He knocked on the polished mahogany bar and Cletus Bagwell appeared before him. “Sarsaparilla, Cletus.”

  “I swear Nick, have you stopped drinking, too?” Violet’s big brown eyes widened.

  Yes, he had, actually, because he wanted to be fully aware of his surroundings while Eulalie was performing. And even while she wasn’t. If anything happened to Eulalie—God forbid—Nick was determined that it wouldn’t be his fault. “Yeah, I reckon I have kind of given up the booze,” he muttered, grabbing the foaming glass Cletus set before him.

  Dooley Chivers, his ever-present cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth, moseyed over. Nick suspected Dooley wanted to get Violet mingling again since she wasn’t going to make any money off Nick that evening. Or any other girl, he thought with a sigh. Damn, it was pathetic what had happened to him since he met Eulalie. No booze. No other women. Hell, he might as well marry the female and put himself out of circulation forever.

  “‘Evening, Nick.”

  Horrified by his last thought, Nick didn’t respond to Dooley’s salutation immediately.

  Marry? Him? Nick Taggart? The notion was so appalling, he had to swallow a couple of times before he got his voice to work. “‘Evening, Dooley,” he said at last in somebody else’s voice.

  “You sick tonight, Nick?”

  Nick swallowed again. “What? Sick? Hell, no.” He’d gone insane, was what the matter was. Holy Moses. If he were a Roman Catholic, Nick knew he’d be crossing himself.

  Dooley subsided against the bar with a satisfied sigh. “Miss Eulalie’s got us another packed house for her show tonight,” he observed happily. “She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to the Opera House.”

  “Yeah,” said Nick, taking another long pull at his sarsaparilla and wishing it was whiskey. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him, too, and he didn’t know what to do about it.

  Marry her?

  Nick waited for the involuntary shudder of revulsion that inevitably attacked him whenever he thought about the married state. He waited some more.

  Then he downed more sarsaparilla and decided he was in even worse shape than he’d supposed. The shudder never came.

  * * * * *

  Eulalie gave herself on
e last look in the mirror, adjusted a shimmering blue feather, dabbed a tiny bit more rouge on her left cheek, picked up the parasol that went with this particular costume, and removed her spectacles. She looked absolutely shameful and, therefore, perfect for her job. “This is it, Eulalie Gibb. Give ‘em hell.”

  She always tried to encourage herself before venturing forth onto the stage of the Opera House. While she’d been performing for her entire life, beginning as a five-year-old child when she danced to wild applause in Vaudeville with her mother and father and aunts and uncles, and progressing through both dramatic and comedic plays in various venues, the Opera House was an entirely different kettle of fish. It didn’t frighten her so much any longer, now that she had Nick Taggart guarding her, but she still felt a degree of nervousness before her nightly performances.

  She tripped down the back steps that led to the stage and stood aside, waiting for Griswold Puckett to play the opening chord of “The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo.” She and Griswold always lined up a week’s worth of opening numbers on Saturday mornings so that Eulalie didn’t have to spend any more time at the Opera House than she had to. Not that she didn’t appreciate both her job and Dooley Chivers. Still, the atmosphere in the Opera House induced a degree of melancholy in Eulalie that she tried to avoid. Her life, while it had eased a good deal since Patsy’s arrival, was still a trifle precarious. She didn’t want to add dampened spirits into the already volatile mix of influences with which she was struggling.

  There wasn’t any time to think about it now, however. Dooley announced her name, the audience cheered, and Eulalie could scarcely hear Griswold’s chord through the din. Nevertheless, as she was a consummate professional, no matter what the venue, she took her place onstage, the curtain opened, and she burst into song.

  The first person she always looked for in an evening was Nick. As Eulalie had expected, he’d stationed himself by the bar, in back of most of her audience, so that he could keep an eye on everyone. Eulalie’s heart throbbed for an instant when he winked at her. Damned stupid heart.