Cherish

by Catherine Anderson

  “Mr. Spencer?”

  “What!”

  “Are you going to be all right, do you think?” she asked in a worried little voice.

  He jerked his head up to gape at her blurry outline over his bent thumb. “Hell, no, I’m not gonna be all right! You broke my nose!”

  “Oh, dear. Do you truly think it’s broken?”

  She’d damned near shoved his gristle into his brain, and now she sounded remorseful? He heard a rustling sound and the blur of her face came closer. The next instant her small hands were trying to pull his away from his face. “Oh, Mr. Spencer, I’m so sorry. May I look?”

  He jerked away. “You stay away from me. Christ! I thought you was a cheek turner!”

  “A what?”

  Race realized he was talking through his wrist. He wrenched his mouth to one side and blinked to bring her into focus. That sweet little face. All those golden curls. She looked like an angel. What an illusion.

  “A cheek turner! One of them Bible thumpers that don’t believe in violence!”

  “Well, I was. I’ve—it would seem I’ve fallen from grace.”

  He glared at her for a moment. No question. He outweighed her by at least a hundred and ten pounds. “Fallen from grace?”

  “I asked you very politely to desist.”

  Race had no idea what “desist” meant, but judging by the context of the sentence, he got the nub of it. “I thought you said you wouldn’t fight me. Next thing I know, you’re clawin’ and spittin’ like a she-cat.”

  He heard her make a muffled sound of distress. Then she tried to pull his hand away again.

  “Leave me alone, I said! Go nettle the plug-uglies!”

  “Oh, Mr. Spencer, I’m so sorry!” Her voice went all quavery. “You frightened me!”

  He shot her a glare. “Don’t you dare.”

  “Dare what?” she asked shakily.

  “Start cryin’. I mean it. Not one tear.” He saw tears welling, and he narrowed his eyes.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just—oh, lands, I don’t know what came over me.” She bent forward at the waist, a hand pressed to her throat as she tried to see behind his fist. “I didn’t mean to hurt you! Honestly I didn’t.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  “Are you positive it’s actually broken?”

  Race felt fairly certain. The bridge was leaning toward his right eye. “You know, this ain’t the least bit fair. Puckerin’ up. Makin’ me feel bad. I didn’t hurt a hair on your head, and didn’t plan to!”

  “Oh, mercy, I know. That’s why I came back. You were a little too convincing there for a moment, I’m afraid. I lost my head.” She tugged on his wrist. “Let me look.”

  “Rebecca, keep pesterin’ me, and you’re fixin’ to get swatted on your other cheek.”

  “Oh, you’re such a meany. Come on. Move your hand. I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

  Race had made grown men turn tail with a glare. How was it that this half-swatch of muslin had absolutely no fear of him? “I am mean. Meaner’n a sidewinder with a nasty disposition!”

  “I know.” She drew his hand slightly away from his face and her breath caught. “Oh, merciful heaven, what have I done?”

  “Is it that bad?” He crossed his eyes trying to see.

  She touched her fingers to her mouth, and tears spilled over her lashes onto her pale cheeks. “Oh, Mr. Spencer, it really is broken! Oh, lands! What have I done? You were so handsome, and now just look at you!”

  He flopped on his back and stared at the sky, thinking he’d rather have a bad case of bawdy-house itch than deal with her tears. “Don’t get all worked up. It’s got a weak spot and breaks kinda easy. I know you didn’t mean to.” Angling one arm over his eyes, he sighed. He knew by tonight he’d have two prize-winning shiners. A busted nose usually brought black eyes with it. The pain had eased up, at least. “Aw, hell. I had it comin’. Of all the damned fool things I ever done, that takes the prize. I wanted to make you feel better, and that was all I could think to do.”

  From under his sleeve, he saw her crouch next to him and loop her arms around her knees. “I know that,” she said shakily. “And it was foolish. But for some strange reason, it did make me feel better.”

  He let his arm drop onto the grass above his head. “It did?”

  Still hugging her knees, she rocked forward onto her toes to look down at him with the biggest, prettiest, most shimmery blue eyes he’d ever seen. “Just knowing you care that much makes me feel a bit better. After what happened to Tag, I’m amazed you don’t detest me.”

  For a few brief minutes, he’d nearly forgotten about Tag. Now the guilt slammed into him again. “What happened to Tag wasn’t your fault,” he said huskily. “It was mine. For not lookin’ after him good enough.”

  A tear clung to one of her bottom lashes. Just hung there, glistening like a tiny prism. “I’d tell you how wrong you are to think that,” she said, “but I know it wouldn’t help. It’s going to hurt no matter what.”

  Just as she was going to hurt, no matter what. She screamed my name…He’d never forget the pain in her voice when she’d said that. “I reckon that’s true,” he admitted. “And that bein’ the case, there ain’t much point in you tryin’ to elbow in and take some of my blame. You got enough of your own.”

  She gazed at the horizon for a long moment. “We’re a fine pair.” She released a weary sigh. “Oh, what a miserable day. I’d like to wish some of my life away—anything to put this far behind me.”

  Race could have gone for that himself. “Rebecca,” he whispered huskily. “You gotta promise me, darlin’. Give me your word that you won’t do somethin’ loco like this again. No matter how bad you feel.”

  She drew her gaze back to his. “I feel as if I’m destroying your life.”

  “Then you oughta stay around to help me put it back together again.”

  Her mouth quivered at the corners. “Do you really want me to?”

  In that moment, Race knew he wanted nothing more, and that it would probably end up being the biggest heartache of his life. “I really do,” he whispered.

  She smiled at him through her tears. “Maybe we can help each other. My life’s in a pretty horrible mess, too.”

  “You got a bargain.” He wiped his right hand clean on his shirt and held it out to her. “Shake on it?”

  She laid her slender fingers across his palm. “A bargain, Mr. Spencer.” She tipped her head to one side again. “I think the first thing we should put back together is your nose.”

  Chapter 13

  “This here will have you feelin’ better in no time!” Mr. Grigsley announced as he crawled back into the wagon, two brown corked bottles under one arm and another two clutched in one fist. “Fact is, it’ll do us all a world of good.”

  Pete Standish, who sat with his back to the front end of the wagon, stretched out one leg, the leather of his chaps fanning over the top of his dusty boots. “You must be high on Cookie’s list, Miss Rebecca. He don’t share his elixir with just any old body.”

  “I brung some for everyone,” Mr. Grigsley protested as he handed a bottle down to Johnny, who sat near Rebecca on the pallet. “I even brung one for you!” he said as he tossed a second bottle to Pete. “Here you go, missy.”

  Rebecca took her bottle, eyeing it curiously. “What is it?”

  “My magic elixir.”

  “A medicine, you mean?” Rebecca glanced over at the cook as he sat across from her, leaning his plump shoulders against a cross board. “What is it supposed to cure?”

  “Every damned thing,” Pete said with a chuckle. “Includin’ my good aim.” He squinted at Mr. Grigsley. “I get to feelin’ too good, Cookie, and the boss’ll have my head when he gets back.”

  “Mine, too,” Johnny agreed. “We’re supposed to be guardin’ Miss Rebecca.”

  “Such hogwash!” Mr. Grigsley said, uncorking his bottle. “You can’t feel too good.” He raised his bottle to Rebecca. “Pull your cork,
honey, and bottoms up!”

  With that, Mr. Grigsley tipped the container to his mouth and fairly guzzled the contents, whistling and shuddering when he finally stopped to breathe. Rebecca watched him, fascinated. “I’ve always taken elixir by the spoonful.”

  “That’d take all night!” Mr. Grigsley leaned forward and grabbed her bottle, removing the cork and then handing it back to her. “Drink! You see how easy I’m movin’? Hardly feel my cracked ribs. It’s a magic cure, for sure.”

  “But, Mr. Grigsley, I’m not ill. I’m just worried about Mr. Spencer.”

  Johnny chuckled. “Cookie’s elixir is especially good for worrying. Or jangled nerves. A few belts of that, and you’ll feel as slick as butter on a flapjack.”

  “Really?” Rebecca took a small sip. A horrible, fiery taste washed over her tongue, and she shuddered, holding the bottle well away. “Oh, lands! That’s—tasty.”

  “Ain’t it?” Mr. Grigsley watched her. “Go on. Have a belt.”

  Rebecca was afraid she might toss up if she took more. But Mr. Grigsley was watching her, and she hated to hurt his feelings. She took a big gulp. The fire took her breath. She clapped a hand to her throat and sprang to her knees, trying frantically to inflate her lungs. Johnny rescued her bottle, snatching it from her hand so she didn’t spill it. Pete leaned over to thump her between the shoulder blades.

  “Everything okay in there?” Mr. McNaught called from outside where he stood guard at one side of the wagon. From the other side of the conveyance, Corey said, “Is Miss Rebecca all right?”

  “She’s fine as a frog’s hair,” Pete called. “And she’ll be even finer here shortly. Cookie’s treatin’ her nerves.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  Rebecca finally caught her breath. As she sank down on the pallet, Johnny handed the bottle back to her. She took it between her thumb and forefinger. “I’ve heard of bitter medicine.”

  Mr. Grigsley smacked his lips. “It tastes better with every swallow. That’s part of the magic.”

  Rebecca noticed that Pete had set his bottle of elixir aside untouched. Noticing her look, he said, “I ain’t got a nerve problem, honey. Especially not worryin’ over the boss. He’ll be back from that arroyo before you know it, and the others with him, not a hair outta place on any of ’em.”

  Rebecca drew up her knees, wedged her skirt between them, and tucked her bottle in the depression of muslin. “His nose must be hurting terribly, riding horseback so soon after getting it packed.”

  Pete chuckled. “He’ll live. Ain’t the first time he’s got that honker broke.”

  She sighed. “I’ll be worried until they get back. I just can’t help but think his going to the arroyo to get that money is extremely risky. What if those awful men shoot him?” Realizing how that sounded, she added, “Not that I’m not equally concerned for the welfare of the other three men who went with him.”

  “Another swig!” Mr. Grigsley ordered. “Come on. Trust me. You’ll feel a whole lot better with some of my magic elixir under your belt.”

  A warm feeling was already spreading through Rebecca’s middle. Blue, who lay on her left between her and Pete, whined. She scratched him behind the ears. “Perhaps I should dose you, poor old fellow.” She saw Mr. Grigsley watching her and dutifully took another swallow of medicine. “It’s not as breathtaking the second time. You’re correct. It does taste better with each swallow.”

  Pete chuckled. “It’ll cure what ails ya, no question.”

  Rebecca doubted that anything would ease her mind until she saw Race Spencer returning to camp, hale and hearty. But she took another swallow of medicine, nonetheless.

  “Camptown ladies sing dis song, Doodah! doodah! Camptown racetrack five miles long, Oh! doodah day!”

  Race heard Rebecca singing as he was unsaddling Dusty, and her voice, interspersed with gay laughter, kept ringing out the entire time he rubbed down the horse. Preach, who’d ridden with him to the arroyo, glanced at Race over the back of his gelding and shook his head. “Sounds like they’re havin’ a high ol’ time.”

  Race grinned in spite of himself. He heard Rebecca cry, “Oh, lands!” Then she giggled. He gave Dusty a final pat, slung the saddlebags full of money over his shoulder, and struck off for camp. Trevor McNaught inclined his head to Race in greeting when he walked into the light of the fire.

  “Howdy, boss.”

  Race gazed past McNaught at the wagon. Rebecca’s shrill giggles drifted to him. “I never heard her laugh before,” he told the grizzled cowhand. “Didn’t figure I would, considerin’. Not for a spell, at least.”

  McNaught pulled a face. “Cookie dosed her with his magic cure.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  When Race threw up the rear flap and climbed into the wagon, Rebecca didn’t notice him for going on a minute. She was too intent on Cookie. “How does it go?”

  “Jimmy crack corn, and I don’t care! My master’s gone away!” Cookie belted out.

  Rebecca chimed in behind him, swinging a brown bottle in time to the melody. Pete met Race’s gaze the length of the wagon. “She was a little nerved up, worryin’ about you. What with all else that’s happened to the poor girl, Cookie decided to dose her.”

  Race settled his gaze on his charge, who’d been pale and hollow-eyed when he left her two hours ago. She now had some color in her cheeks and, despite the dark circles that still remained under them, her eyes had a pretty sparkle. Her braid had come loose from her head and hung in a raveling loop to one side, the end all that was still attached to her crown.

  “He dose her or drown her?” Race asked.

  “Mr. Spencer!” She shot up from the pallet, took two running steps, and launched herself at him, knocking him up alongside the head with the bottle as she threw her arms around his neck. “You’re all right! Oh, lands! I’m so relieved.”

  If she’d been any more relieved, she wouldn’t have been standing. Race lowered his shoulder to let the saddlebags drop and caught her close within the circle of one arm. Her feet left the floor, and she hung there from his neck like an oversize necklace. “I told you I’d be fine, darlin’.”

  She pressed her face against his throat. “I was so-oo-o apprehensive!”

  He narrowed an eye at Cookie. “If she gets sick, I’ll wring your neck.” He jerked when he felt her lips part and the tip of her tongue touch his skin. He tucked in his chin to look down. “Rebecca?”

  “Mmm. You taste so nice.”

  Pete shot to his feet. “I gotta go see a dog about a man.”

  “A man about a dog,” Johnny corrected as he fell in behind the foreman. “You ain’t leavin’ me here. Nossir!”

  Cookie wasn’t quite so agile, but he gained his feet with amazing speed, nonetheless. “I’m flat tuckered, all sudden like! Reckon I’ll head for my bedroll.”

  Race leaned his head far to one side, trying to escape velvety lips. “Don’t leave!” He turned in time to see Johnny dive over the wagon gate, Cookie not far behind him. “Hey, fellas!”

  Cookie looked back over his shoulder at Rebecca, who was nibbling under Race’s ear. “I heard tell some gals get real friendly. Sure am glad it’s your trouble and not mine.”

  Race watched his cook swing out. The next second the flap dropped. He stood there, stretching his neck, trying to evade the sweetest mouth on God’s earth as it latched onto his earlobe. “Rebecca?”

  “You taste salty,” she said with a giggle. The next instant, she sang, “Swing low, sweet chariot!” and damned near busted his eardrum.

  Race had a feeling it was going to be a very long night and an even longer journey home.

  After laying out a nightgown for Rebecca, Race left the wagon while she dressed for bed. Sitting with his back braced against the wagon wheel, he listened with growing alarm to the rustles, creaks and thumps coming from inside the conveyance. Trevor McNaught, relieved now of standing guard and warming himself by the fire, threw Race a questioning glance when Rebecca let loose with a peal of laughter. L
ifting his gaze, the cowhand began staring at a point well above Race’s head. Wondering what the man found so damned interesting up there, Race finally turned to look himself.

  He immediately shot to his feet. The light of the lamp threw Rebecca’s silhouette against the canvas. Her swaying figure was outlined in magnified detail. It looked as if she’d gotten her dress tugged halfway down her arms and become stuck. Wiggling and twisting to free herself, she was unknowingly putting on the equivalent of a hurdy-gurdy dancing show for McNaught, her small breasts, covered with only the tease of her wash-worn cotton chemise, clearly defined on the canvas in all their jiggling glory.

  “Go find somethin’ to do,” Race ordered his hired hand in a silky voice. “And tell the other men to stay the hell away from here till I tell ’em different.”

  McNaught jerked erect, his expression wary. “Don’t get pissed. I didn’t do nothin’.”

  Race had an unholy urge to smash his fist into the other man’s face, a feeling he knew was as unjustified as it was irrational. “Put your eyes back in your head, and get the hell outta here!”

  As McNaught made fast tracks to do just that, Race rejoined Rebecca inside the wagon. Compliments of Cookie’s elixir, she didn’t even blink when she saw him.

  “Hello!” she said cheerfully.

  This from the young lady who’d never taken an unchaperoned walk with a man until last night? Trying to follow the advice he had just snarled at McNaught, Race made a valiant attempt to keep his gaze averted as he turned the lamp down so it cast only a feeble glow over the interior of the wagon. Then he grasped Rebecca’s bare shoulders and pressed her down onto her knees so only the silhouette of her head would be revealed against the canvas. As he knelt before her, she smiled, her expression bemused.

  “I find myself faced with an unprecedented difficulty, Mr. Spencer.”

  He had no idea what “unprecedented” meant, but she sure as hell had the difficult part right. “What’s that?” he asked, his voice sounding as if he had a tight noose around his neck.