In a Cowboy’s Arms

by Janette Kenny

  The old man scratched his nape. “Nothing near that big, though I recollect there were several good-sized ones here and there.”

  Dade turned to her. “Tell him what you recall of the place where you last saw your friend. See if he recalls it.”

  She did, going into as much detail as she could remember. But there simply hadn’t been much there besides the cattle pens, cows, a trading post, and the big white house.

  “I know this place wasn’t a town,” she said. “The house sat on a hill and a wide lane crossed the tracks right in front of it.” At least it had looked big to an eight-year-old girl.

  “You remember it?” Dade asked the old man.

  “Remember it!” The old man slapped his game leg and laughed. “I tell you, boy, men from six counties around here saved up their money so they could visit the Crossroads.”

  “Why?” she asked, earning a frown from Dade.

  The old man shuffled his feet, looking uncomfortable. “It was a sporting house, ma’am, and a mighty highfalutin one at that.”

  He didn’t have to explain more. But knowing what it was filled her with dread.

  That explained why Maggie had always felt they’d stopped in the middle of nowhere, because in reality they had. Nothing but cattle pens and a brothel.

  She’d seen the man who’d taken Daisy go up to his house. Why would the gentleman who’d adopted Daisy take her to a brothel?

  The worry in Dade’s eyes told her the same question had crossed his mind. “This brothel still there?”

  “Don’t know,” the old man said. “Ain’t heard of anyone who’s visited Miss Jennean’s in many a year.”

  “How far is this place from here?”

  The old man gave that some thought. “Reckon a good two days’ ride if you angle northeast out of La Junta.”

  Maggie didn’t have to ask if they’d be heading that way today. The determined glint in Dade’s eyes confirmed it.

  The old man turned to her. “You fixing to put breakfast on directly, ma’am?”

  All she knew how to make was flapjacks, if she had a stove and griddle and the proper ingredients. “I-I can’t.”

  “If that don’t beat all,” the old man mumbled.

  She refused to look at Dade. Mercy, she’d never felt so inadequate as a woman.

  “I’ve got salt pork and spuds to fry,” Dade said, and the old man rubbed his hands together and smiled.

  She envied Dade the ability to put food on the table–even poor fare. Why, all she was really adept at was making herself a cup of tea.

  Her culinary experience ended shortly after it had begun. Mrs. Nowell had caught Maggie in the kitchen, making flapjacks for herself and Caroline, with the cook’s supervision.

  The lady had ordered both girls to their room, then threatened to fire any member of the staff who dared to allow such a thing to happen again.

  After that, those few trips Maggie made to the kitchen were to fetch or filch something that Caroline or she desired, like a tart, fruit, or a cookie. She never even made her own tea.

  So here she was, twenty-seven years old and having no clue how to take care of herself, much less a family. But even in her exhausted state last night, she’d been fascinated by the ease with which Dade had built a fire and prepared coffee.

  He’d done the same just now, passing her a cup of coffee that was as strong and bracing as he was. She took it, not having the heart to tell him she rarely drank coffee, and when she did, she preferred cream and sugar in it.

  Those commodities weren’t on hand, and while the coffee wasn’t to her liking, it would surely give her a jolt of energy. God knew she’d need stamina today to endure another long hard ride in the saddle.

  So she forced down her coffee and watched Dade. The old man had offered the use of his big skillet and now seemed equally as interested in every move he made–or rather in the fact that a meal would be forthcoming.

  Yes, she wouldn’t have had any idea where to start to prepare breakfast. But she intended to learn. A good part of her fight for independence depended on her being able to take care of herself.

  Surely in the weeks she’d be in Dade’s company she could learn a lot from him. She wouldn’t be so helpless.

  The enticing aroma of sizzling bacon woke her appetite. Her gaze strayed to Dade again. She hadn’t thought that something as simple as peeling a potato and slicing it into a skillet would test his muscles. But his shirt strained across his back with each metered movement.

  Maggie smoothed her hands down her skirt, well remembering the feel of those hard muscles shifting beneath her palms. He was strong and unpretentious.

  He was nothing like Whit. Nothing at all.

  That had to be why she hadn’t shied away when he’d stolen a kiss. When he touched her, even doing something as simple as helping her on her horse, she didn’t feel fear. She felt desire.

  Dade passed a tin plate and fork into her hands. “It’s not much but it’ll fill the void.”

  “Looks damned good to me,” the old man said, helping himself to a generous portion of fried potatoes and bacon.

  She took a bite and sighed her pleasure. “This is delicious.”

  He flicked her another of those questioning looks, but clearly didn’t feel like sharing his thoughts. In short order, he filled his own plate and then dropped down on the bunk beside her to eat.

  Maggie forced her mind back on the food before her instead of the man sitting far too close. It wasn’t easy, but she had begun to learn how to hide the turmoil that went on within her whenever he was near.

  She credited that ability to her having learned to hide her revulsion for Whit, as well as her plan to flee him.

  With Dade she had to be more careful. While folks in Placid would expect a certain hesitancy between the estranged siblings, strangers that they’d meet on their journey would question those odd looks and telling flinches when they ventured too close or touched each other. That’s one thing they wanted to avoid, for that wouldgenerate talk. The bounty hunter would be sure to pick up on that oddity.

  They had to blend in as brother and sister, not draw attention. That meant she had to control this awareness that arced through her whenever Dade was close.

  But mercy did it have to seem as insurmountable as holding back a flood?

  Dade finished first and set about stowing their provisions. She took another bite of potato, but simply couldn’t force down the rest. Her appetite was gone, replaced by a wad of nerves over longing and cold hard reality.

  She simply couldn’t afford to be a free woman right now.

  “It was delicious, but I’ve had enough.” Instead of dumping the food, she offered the old man her plate.

  He took her leftovers without hesitation and scraped them into what little remained in the skillet. She was certain he intended to enjoy it later.

  Though she hadn’t realized it before, she did now. Dade had prepared far too much food. On purpose? She’d bet on it.

  “No sense in wasting good victuals,” the old man said.

  He passed the empty plate back to her. The action caught her by surprise, for nobody had ever handed her an empty plate before. But this was Dade’s tin plate. The old man was likely many things, but he wasn’t a thief.

  She flicked a glance at Dade, but he’d already carried their saddles outside. All that remained was the straw pannier holding their provisions.

  Her dirty plate and the rag he’d used to clean up were the only things of his not packed. She grabbed the rag and wiped the plate, surprised how quickly the food had adhered to it.

  That small thing reminded her of the trays loaded with plates and bowls that the servants had brought to Caro-line’s room. How the two of them had picked and fussed and wasted far too much of the fare.

  Whoever was in charge of cleaning the utensils and dishes–and it embarrassed her now that she had never bothered to know their names–had scrubbed the remains of their meals off time after time.

 
; She applied rag to plate and scrubbed and wiped until it was clean. Until she’d be willing to eat off it again. Only then did she rise with intention of packing it in the pannier.

  Dade stood there watching her, his eyes dark and unreadable. If he appreciated her help, he kept it to himself.

  She fidgeted and debated whether to pack the plate or hand it to him. This was his plate. His provisions. His journey to make.

  She was just the hanger on. The one person he had agreed to take to St. Louis because she could help him reach his goal of finding Daisy first.

  Maggie handed him the plate. “I need to–” She broke off and motioned toward the door, praying he understood.

  “Make it quick as you can,” he said. “Sun’s up now.”

  She’d had privacy to attend to her needs before, but the light of day dispelled that. “I won’t dawdle.”

  Maggie wasted no time hustling out the door. A crimson glow brightened the horizon, and she hoped that meant fair weather for today’s ride.

  By the time she’d finished, Dade had the horses saddled and the packs secured. The old man was sitting on his stump chair right outside the door, looking relaxed.

  “You’re welcome to stay longer if you want,” the old man said.

  “Appreciate it, but we have to get going,” Dade said.

  He gave Maggie a boost up onto the saddle, and she smothered a wince as her sore muscles protested being back on a horse. She gripped the saddle horn with one hand and took the reins Dade handed her with the other.

  He flicked her a questioning look, and she managed a smile. He must have taken it to mean she was settled in the best she could, for he swung onto his gelding without a word.

  “If Miss Jennean is still running the Crossroads, you tell her that Omar Orley said hey,” the old man said.

  “If I ever get over that way, I’ll pass the word on,” Dade said, surprising Maggie.

  But only for a moment. She realized he wouldn’t admit their destination in case the bounty hunter trailed them here.

  “Thanks for the hospitality,” Dade said.

  “Come back any time,” Orley said.

  Dade headed them east over the rolling plains, breaking into a ground-eating trot far too soon for her liking. Again she concentrated on riding with the horse rather than against the mare. She tried not to think too much about the cowboy leading her into the unknown.

  A refreshing breeze swept down from the west, but the bright sun in a cloudless sky promised that the day could turn torturous. She was doubly grateful for the wide brimmed straw hat he’d bought her.

  But she wasn’t sure she could continue at this pace. Just as she was about to voice a protest, Dade slowed the horses to a walk.

  She thought their chances were slim of finding anyone at the Crossroads who’d remember Daisy. The fact that Daisy had been taken to the house of ill repute didn’t sit well with her. What had become of Daisy? Would they ever know? Had her fate been kinder than Maggie’s?

  She stared at the set line of Dade’s shoulders. He blamed himself for losing his sister to the orphan train. If a baser fate had befallen her, she feared he’d never forgive himself.

  They topped a rise, and Dade brought them to a stop. “This looks like a good place to rest.”

  She stared out at the undulating plains, noting sparse clumps of trees in the distance in any direction she looked.

  He took a drink from his canteen, his throat working as he drank. He swiped a hand across his mouth and handed her the canteen.

  She took a sip from it, giving in to a shiver as her mouth settled over the place his had just been. It seemed so intimate to drink after a man.

  “I don’t doubt the old man is right about it taking two days of hard riding to get to the Crossroads,” Dade said. “When you get too weary to ride or need to stop, speak up.”

  “I will. Do you think we’ll find shelter along the way?”

  “We’ll be damned lucky if we do.”

  She had been afraid he’d say that.

  Chapter 14

  After a grueling day of riding northeast, they headed east, staying within sight of the railroad tracks. Dade knew Maggie was ready to drop from the saddle, but he didn’t dare venture into any of the towns they’d passed. So they camped on the plains that night, and sleeping beside her without touching her was damned near impossible.

  Near the end of the second day, Dade heard the lowing of cattle and caught the unmistakable smell of manure long before the cattle pens came into view. It sure as hell wasn’t anything near the size of the stockyards he’d seen in Cheyenne, Laramie, or Denver. But then this was pretty much still the middle of nowhere.

  The barbed wire fence barring them from riding straight toward the pens confirmed that this land was privately owned now. Hard to guess how many acres stretched south over the Kansas prairie, but the glint of wire as far as he could see had him thinking it was a section at least.

  A large red barn stood to the west of the pens. Farther west still was a two-story white house with a large yard enclosed with a white picket fence.

  “Is that the Crossroads?” Maggie asked, sounding more tired than she had last night.

  “You tell me.”

  The snake of railroad tracks extended as far west and east as he could see. A worn trail, smaller than the road that had taken them on an easterly route since noon, stretched from the house to beyond the tracks.

  That had to be the lane to the property. A fair-sized building near the tracks and the water tower likely served as the depot. If there was a trading post there too, he’d be surprised.

  “I don’t know. There wasn’t a depot back then,” she said. “We stood on a platform near the pens.”

  “The auction block,” he said, and she flushed.

  How many similar places had Daisy and Maggie stood waiting for someone to claim them? Too many.

  Just thinking about what those children went through got his dander up. The orphan train was supposed to be a better fate than indenture, but through his eyes it hadn’t looked much different.

  He’d never forgotten how the factory owners had visited Guardian Angel’s Orphan Asylum, looking for stout boys to apprentice in a variety of trades, from steel-workers to wheelwrights. Or how businessmen and the like came every few months looking for strong healthy boys to work the fields or labor in their shops for room and board.

  The guardians at the home told them over and over that it was a better fate than ending up on the street. Dade hadn’t been convinced.

  For one thing he didn’t want to be a steelworker or hired hand. He wanted to own a little piece of land. A farm where he could provide for his sister like he’d promised his ma.

  Instead his sister had been chosen by the man who’d taken her to the big white house–the Crossroads, one of the most elite brothels of its time. There was no good reason why a gentleman would do that. None at all.

  “The white house looked different,” she said. “But it’s right where I remembered it would be.”

  He squinted as sun reflected off the glass windows, his heart pounding faster at the thought of finally finding Daisy. “Let’s pay it a visit, and see if anyone recalls Daisy.”

  They skirted the barbed wire to their west. Yep, this was clearly a working ranch now and a prosperous one to boot.

  Nearly fifteen minutes passed before they reached the lane leading up to the house. The road here was wider and worn.

  The area saw a lot of traffic, and the reason was obvious when they reached the depot. Tucked behind it was a long low building boasting a sign that read LARK’S TRADING POST.

  “I saw this place when the train pulled in,” Maggie said.

  Dade reined up in front of the trading post and dismounted. “Let’s see what we can find out.”

  He secured the horses to the hitching post, then helped Maggie down. Her hands gripped his shoulders, while his bracketed her waist. Their eyes caught and held, and he felt a frisson of energy pass from h
er into him.

  The baser part of him ached to pull her close and kiss her and taste those sweet lips pressed against his once again. He set her aside and stepped back, cursing his abruptness when she swayed before steadying herself.

  To hell with her fevered denial the other day. The high color on her cheeks told him she was equally affected.

  “Dade,” she began, her expression troubled.

  “Later, Maggie.” He didn’t care to get a lecture on holding her just now. “After you.”

  She strode to the trading post with him right behind her.

  He reached around her and opened the door, and his arm brushed her shoulder. A soft gasp escaped her, just loud enough for his ears.

  Maggie hurried inside. A wiry man with a beard and thick spectacles perched on his beak of a nose smiled at them.

  “Afternoon, folks. How can I help you?”

  Dade wasted no time explaining. “You lived around here long?”

  “Close to twenty-five years,” he said, his gaze narrowing. “You looking for someone?”

  “That I am.” He nodded toward Maggie. “Our sister was on an orphan train that passed through here some twenty years back. A gentleman took her to that white house up on the rise.”

  “I remember the train, but don’t recall the man or the girl he took,” he said. “But Miss Jennean would. Why, she can remember everyone who’s passed through her doors.”

  Dade’s insides tightened. While he had higher hopes now that she’d remember Daisy, there was the fear that his sister had never left the brothel.

  “Heard that house was once called the Crossroads,” Dade said.

  The shopkeeper nodded. “Still is by those who know.”

  But was it still a brothel? Before Dade could ask, Maggie posed a question of her own.

  “Does Miss Jennean have children?” she asked.

  “A daughter,” the man said. “Miss Isabella Reed is back east getting an education.”

  Miss Isabella. Not Miss Daisy.

  His first thought was relief that his sister hadn’t ended up being a prostitute’s daughter. Then a darker thought seeped into his mind that Daisy might have become one of the Crossroads doves.