by Jane Toombs
"You liked me that way once. Remember? Have the McAllisters changed you like Philippe said they would? Does your father-in-law-to-be object to your ne'er-do-well friends? Is that why you deserted us? Deserted not only me, but Philippe, supposedly your best friend. Possibly you were too busy escorting Laura to social events to pay attention to us."
"Keep her out of this.” His voice was icy. “I don't want to hear her name on your lips. Ever."
"So you believe she's too good for me, is that what you mean? Too good for someone you think murdered Philippe? Too much of a goody-goody girl to associate with Monique Vaudreuil."
"I warned you,” Jeremy said.
"What more can you do to me? How can you possibly hurt me more than you have already? I loved you, Jeremy, and you turned your back on me, spurned me. Betrayed me. You can rot in hell throughout eternity for all I care, and I wouldn't lift a finger to help you. I wouldn't do so much as to spit on the flames. Both of you can burn in hell, you and Laura."
"I warned you,” he repeated, advancing on her, eyes ablaze.
Monique seized the bucket. “Stay away from me."
He reached for her and she threw the half-full bucket as hard as she could. He tried to leap aside, but the bucket struck him his chest a glancing blow and the water cascaded over him.
"You bitch,” he muttered, looking down at his sopping shirt and pants.
Before she could move he was on her, grabbing and bunching her shirt in his fist, pulling her toward him. The aging material tore, leaving him holding a handful of cloth and leaving her with one of her breasts bare. He stared at her. At her bared breast. Monique whirled, picked up the broom from beside the door, then advanced on him.
Jeremy backed away. She swung. He grabbed the brush end of the broom and yanked. The pungent smell of sage filled the room as she stumbled forward, letting go of the handle too late to avoid falling against him.
She drew back. He grasped her arms and tried to pull her toward him, but she twisted free and slapped him. She heard his quick intake of breath and then he came after her, his brown eyes glinting.
"Don't touch me,” she warned as he reached for her and yanked her to him. “Don't touch me,” she said again, hearing the tremor in her voice. He kissed her. “Don't,” she said, jerking her mouth away from his.
He gripped the cloth of her shirt and it tore again, leaving what was left of it in tatters, making it easy for him to pull it down over her arms and off. She tried to free herself, but he held her to him with one hand, the other unbuttoning her pants.
Flaming with rage, she fought him, flailing at him. Her nails scraped across his face, drawing blood. “Explain that to Laura!” she cried.
He pushed her pants down her legs, then threw her to the floor and yanked them off. As she started to pull his hair, his mouth found hers in a hard, passionate kiss, and she found herself responding. She groaned with rage, but was helpless to free herself with his arms locked around her, his lips inciting conflicting feelings within her. She groaned again, but this time fury was mixed with desire. She hated him, yet she wanted him.
Her hands grasped his shirt, pulling until the buttons came undone, until she could feel his bare chest against her breasts. He lifted her, carrying her to the mattress, falling with her in his arms. He freed his arousal and her legs parted as he sought her. She screamed when he entered her, in passion rather than pain, and clutched him to her, locking her arms and legs about him as the throbbing pulse of her desire rose and exploded in unison with his.
The lay in each other's arms for a time, sated and at peace. Finally Jeremy released her, shifting so he lay beside her. His eyes closed. He meant to sleep? Monique smiled wickedly. She reached to him, her fingers feather-soft as they lingered on his bared body, touching his manhood with the lightest of caresses before moving away. He murmured and opened his eyes.
"Take your boots off,” she said.
He raised up and looked down at his feet, as if surprised to find his boots still on. Sitting up, he pulled off both his boots and his pants that were bunched over them. When he eased back down, he said, “Now what?"
In answer, she kissed his mouth, a long kiss, then let her lips trail lower. Kneeling beside him, she caressed his chest with her mouth, then his stomach and lower. He moaned as her tongue circled his arousal.
Monique raised her head and whispered, “Will she do this for you?” Without waiting for an answer, she lowered her head to him once more.
Finally, she shifted into a sitting position and straddled him. He reached for her breasts as she leaned over him, pulling her closer so he could circle her nipple with his tongue, first one, then the other. She raised her hips and slid down with him inside her.
"Will she do this for you?” Monique asked as she raised and lowered her hips. He groaned with desire and need. When she felt him strain toward her, she stopped moving until he quieted. Then she began again. “Will she—"
He cut off her words by yanking her roughly down on top of him.
"When you're with her,” Monique whispered against his lips, “you'll think of me. When you take her in your arms, you'll remember how it was with me and you'll wish you were with me, not with her. Wait and see, Jeremy. Wait and see."
"Damn you.” He rolled her over so she was beneath him, thrusting into her again and again until she cried out, quivering in climax, and he found his own release.
Afterwards, she waited until his grip loosened, then pushed him away and got up. Since her shirt was ruined, she pulled on his, put on her pants and slid her feet into her shoes.
"What are you doing?” Jeremy asked.
She leaned down and gave him a quick kiss in answer, stepping back before he could reach for her. As she walked toward the door she put on her cap. By the time he got his pants on and reached the door, she was leading both horses away from the cabin.
"Where in hell do you think you're going?” he demanded.
She threw the gelding's reins up over his head and struck his flank with the flat of her hand. The horse shied away and stood looking at her. Monique picked up a rock and threw it. When it hit the gelding, he bolted down the wash.
Jeremy sprinted toward her. She picked up another rock and flung it at him. He stopped and caught the rock before it hit him. By then she was in the saddle, urging the pinto up the hill.
"I'm going back to Virginia City,” she called over her shoulder, the words drifting down to him. At the top of the hill she reined in, looked back and raised her hand to her cap, then swung around and rode off.
"Damnation.” Muttering imprecations, Jeremy hurried back toward the cabin for his boots. No way was he going to trail that gelding along the wash in his bare feet. When he reached the cabin, he saw he was still carrying the rock she'd tossed at him. About to throw the damned thing away, he took a second look, turning it over and over, staring at the blue veins.
It can't be, he told himself. Yet he knew silver had been discovered in stranger ways than this.
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CHAPTER 14
Even though Monique rode through Gold Hill with her cap pulled low to shadow her face, she still found herself huddling away from the casual glances of passersby. If she wasn't afraid, why was she trying to hide? Monique straightened in the saddle, head up.
As she neared Virginia City, she came on an old Indian woman hobbling beside the road with a bundle of sticks on her back. Taking off her cap, she tossed it to the Indian woman. I won't need it anymore, Monique assured herself. I'm a woman, not a boy. I'm through pretending. From now on I'll be what I am, what I was meant to be. If Virginia City doesn't like it, then they'll just have to get used to it.
She kept her head high as she rode into the city, ignoring the stares of miners along the way. She'd intended to return to the boarding house, but she couldn't erase Jeremy's warning entirely. She thought about the man she'd listened to while she watched the fire. The man who'd changed his name. Mark Twain. The flow of his speech t
hen had reminded her of Philippe. That might not be the best reason to trust him, but like her, he'd changed his name and that gave them something in common. At the last moment, she rode instead to the Enterprise, tethering the pinto at the rail in front.
The newspaper office was fly-buzzing quiet, the presses in the basement stilled. A man sat with his back to her, a glass on the desk in front of him, his feet resting on a pulled-out drawer. She watched him raise the glass and drink, then belch and pat his stomach.
"I'm looking for Mr. Twain,” she said.
The man swung to his feet and she recognized him as the man she'd also met on the night of the fire, Lester Harrington of the Gold Hill Union. He stared at her for a moment, taking in the too-big shirt and the pants she wore. Then he swept off his hat and bowed awkwardly, looking, with his gray hair tousled and his eyes bloodshot, as though he hadn't slept.
"Miss Vaudreuil,” he said, “I didn't hear you come in. Sam—I mean Mark—ought to be in soon.” He shook his head. “Can't get used to the way people change their names at the drop of a hat."
"I think a person should be called by whatever they want to be called."
"I quite agree, though it makes it difficult for some of us to remember just what to call them. I'm told the Celestials never tell you their real names, for whatever that's worth."
A mustached man entered the office, paused to blinked a moment at Monique before giving her a slight bow. He nodded to Harrington. “Clemens around?"
"He's Twain now, but no, he's not in by either name,” Harrington said.
"Tell him I want to see him when he gets here.” The man opened a door on the far side of the room and disappeared down a flight of stairs.
"That's Joe Goodman,” Harrington said. “Editor of the Enterprise. His name describes him well."
Monique asked the question she'd meant to ask Twain. “Have you heard where they've taken Philippe Manigault?"
"You mean that Frenchman who got himself stabbed to death?” When Monique nodded, he said, “The body's most likely at Mandell's Mortuary. Twain probably headed there when he heard the news of the killing. I was thinking of ambling over to Mandell's myself.” He glanced from the window. “Looks like him coming now. Seems to have Doc Jamison in tow."
Mark Twain burst into the office, followed by a wheezing older man. The doctor, dressed in black, carried a black bag.
"Miss Vaudreuil,” Mark said, stopping beside her. “We're well met. I'm sure you'll be interested to hear what Dr. Jamison has to say. I'll take a few notes while I listen again.” He sat on the corner of a desk, poised a pencil above a pad and nodded to the doctor.
"I examined the body first thing this A.M.” Doctor Jamison paused for a gulping intake of breath. “Before the heat got to it.” He glanced at Monique. “Begging your pardon, ma'am.” He gulped air again. “The man died of a stab wound to the heart."
"This next it the part you'll be interested in,” Mark said to Monique. “How long had the Frenchman been dead, Doc?"
"From the condition of the body, the state of rigor mortis and so on"—he paused to breathe—"I place the time of death at approximately midnight. Another pause. “Give or take a half-hour on either side."
"So you see,” Mark said, “the suspicions of the crowd that gathered after that lad found Manigault's body were completely false.” He eyed Monique. “They thought you were the murderer, but now we know at the time the Frenchman died, you were otherwise engaged."
Monique felt the blood rise to her face as she realized where she'd been at that time. A prisoner in Chinatown.
"Mr. Alexander Campbell has come forth,” Mark went on, “and made a statement declaring you were with him during the time in question, which was most gallant of him. Or so it would seem, until you consider that he provided himself with an alibi at the same time he exonerated you."
Monique narrowed her eyes. “He wasn't with me all the time."
"When he wasn't with you, he was in a saloon celebrating, with four men ready to swear he never left their sight. Evidently Mr. Campbell didn't kill your friend."
Glancing at the doctor, Monique said, “I wasn't with Mr. Campbell by my own choice. Not at all. As I told Mr. Twain last night, he—"
Dr. Jamison raised his hand. “All is revealed in this morning's Enterprise.” After taking a breath, he smiled at her. “The Flame of Virginia City, I believe the story called you."
Looking at Mark, the doctor said, “As you know, a physician's time is seldom his own. I've got to be running along."
"Thank you for your help,” Mark told him. “I'll be sure to feature your name in the story."
Dr. Jamison nodded and wheezed his way from the office.
"Joe wants to see you,” Harrington told Mark.
Twain nodded absently, his gaze on Monique. “You listened to the doctor without batting an eye. I expected you to be elated when you heard what he had to say."
"I knew I didn't kill Philippe. I am glad everyone else will know it now.” She glanced through the window at three passing miners, one with a pick on his shoulder. “They do know, don't they?"
"I expect the news will spread in short order. If I were you, though, I'd deem it wise to stay out of sight for a few days, until we can get some idea of how the boys feel about you burning down part of the city."
Monique stared at him. “But I didn't mean to! I was only trying to protect myself."
"I understand. Let's just make sure everyone does."
"Sam!” Monique turned to see the editor, Joe Goodman standing in the inner doorway.
"Yes, sir,” Mark said, not reminding the editor of his name change. How confusing to answer to two names, she thought.
"I was just on my way down to see you,” Mark went on. “Have you met Miss Vaudreuil? Monique, may I present Mr. Goodman, our notorious editor-in-chief."
With another long look at her boy's togs, Mr. Goodman said, “Your servant, ma'am.” He switched his attention back to Mark. “Van Allen Reid paid me a visit yesterday afternoon. He was extremely unhappy with your story lampooning the territorial senate's vote on the tax bill."
Mark frowned. “Anyone who'd support the bill is an ass, or else a poltroon who's sold out to Reid and his ilk."
With a glance at Harrington and Monique, Goodman said, “We'll discuss the matter later.” He retreated back down the inside stairs.
Turning to Monique, Mark said, “We need to find you a haven where you can lie low for the next few days until this uproar dies down."
She raised her chin. “I don't intend to hide. I mean to return to my room in the boarding house. I was headed there when I stopped by here."
"Not wise,” Mark insisted. “I strongly advise you to wait."
Monique shook her head, determined to run no more, to hide no more. “If you want to help me,” she said, “someone can bring me a dress and other clothes I'll need from my room. When I walk down C Street to the boarding house, I want to be dressed as what I am—a lady. Not as someone flying false colors."
"I admire your spunk,” Harrington said. “I'll gladly fetch your belongings if you'll describe what you need."
"The pink gown in the wardrobe,” she said. “The other garments are in a carpetbag."
As soon as Harrington left, Mark strode to a desk, removed a key from the top drawer and unlocked the bottom one. Reaching inside, he brought out a leather pouch. “Since you're bound and determined not to listen to me,” he said, “I'll give this to you now rather than later. “I found the money in your room. In the pocket of Manigault's frock coat that was hanging over the back of a chair. He must have brought it with him from the Silver Dollar. Odd the murderer didn't steal it. Which suggests robbery wasn't the motive."
Monique weighed the heavy pouch in her hand before tucking it into her pant's pocket. “I can't thank you enough for all you've done."
"I wish I could do more."
When Harrington returned with her belongings, Mark Twain showed her to an empty room in the b
ack of the building and left her there, closing the door as he went out. When she was garbed in woman's clothes once more, she tucked the boy's togs into the carpetbag and breathed a sigh of relief. Never again would she masquerade, unless she did it for fun. She realized at the same time how terribly tired she was, having missed two nights of sleep. But this was no time to give in to fatigue.
After fluffing out her short hair with her fingers as best she could, she swept from the small room into the office where the two men stared admiringly at her.
"You look lovely,” Mark said. “Joan of Arc on her way to the stake couldn't have looked better."
"I won't let you frighten me."
"But you will let us escort you to your lodgings."
"Thank you, but no, I have to face them alone."
"You don't have to prove anything to anybody,” Harrington put in. “Why not let us go with you?"
"I do have something to prove. I have to show I'm not afraid. I have to prove that, not to them, but to myself."
She left them at the door and descended the steps to C Street, wishing she had gloves, a hat and a parasol so she'd be completely in costume. Head high, carrying her carpetbag, she marched purposefully along the boardwalk toward her destination. Though she looked neither to the right nor left, she was acutely conscious of the stares of the miners. As she walked on, more men left the saloons and gambling houses, arms folded, watching her. No one approached her, no one called to her. The onlookers were as quiet as death.
When she passed Hahn's dance hall, the tinkle of the piano stopped and the hurdy-gurdy girls and their dancing partners joined the other watchers. Virginia City was hushed. “I'll show them,” Monique muttered to herself to drown out the pounding of her heart.
A miner stepped out of a saloon ahead of her and paused, gaping.
"Get out of my way,” she snapped.
He stepped aside, raised his hat and shouted, “Three cheers for the Flame of Virginia City!"
A ragged cheer came from the others. Monique's pulses raced. They were actually cheering her!