Crowe closed the door they had come in and turned toward the other one. Evidently speaking to someone on the other side of that panel, he said, “Allow me to present—” He paused and looked around at Preacher. “I just realized that I don’t know your name.”
“They call me Preacher,” the mountain man said.
“Preacher? That’s all? Surely you have another name.”
“Preacher will do.”
Crowe shrugged. “Very well. Allow me to present Preacher.”
Preacher’s breath hissed between his teeth as his host stepped through the door from the adjoining room. The most beautiful woman he had seen in quite some time smiled at him and said, “Welcome, Preacher, to the Catamount’s Den. I am Simone LeCarde.”
CHAPTER 19
Preacher tried not to stare at the woman, but that wasn’t easy. She had the sort of looks that would draw and hold just about any man’s gaze.
Hair as black as midnight piled high on her head in an elaborate arrangement of curls. The face beneath that swept-up hair had a slightly exotic cast to it. The dark eyes went well with the faintly olive skin, as did the tiny beauty mark near the left corner of her red-lipped mouth. She wore a dark burgundy gown cut low in front to reveal the swells of her breasts. A wide collar stood up to frame her face even more effectively. The dress concealed but also accentuated the rest of her ample curves. She was somewhere between the ages of twenty-five and thirty, Preacher estimated, although he knew that judging a woman’s true age often posed even more challenges than following a cold, faint path through the wilderness.
She was waiting for him to say something, he realized, so he said, “I reckon you must be Simon’s sister.”
She laughed and said, “I think you know better than that, Mister . . . Preacher, was it?”
“Just Preacher. No mister. And how in blazes would I know if this LeCarde fella has a sister? Lots of folks do.”
“That’s true enough, I suppose,” she said as she came toward him. “But just to be clear, there is no Simon LeCarde. Only me. Simon is . . . a useful illusion.”
From behind him, Crowe said softly, “You should consider yourself fortunate. The number of people who know the truth of what was just revealed to you can be counted on one hand.”
“That’s true,” Simone LeCarde said as she rested her right hand on the back of the chair at the other end of the table.
An elegant, long-fingered hand with nails painted to match the dress she wore, Preacher noted, as well as rings on a couple of the fingers.
“Balthazar here, our stalwart compatriot Long Sam, Francis Bennington, the man who keeps my accounts for me . . . and now you.”
“I reckon the question is, why me?” Preacher said.
Crowe rumbled, “When fortune smiles on a man, he is wise not to question it.”
“No, I can see why Preacher would be puzzled,” Simone said. “Why don’t we have a seat, and I’ll explain everything.”
She might be waiting for him to hustle to the other end of the table and hold her chair for her, Preacher realized. Normally, he treated women with a sort of rough chivalry and probably would have done just that in other circumstances, but he didn’t trust her, felt that something was fishy about this whole deal, and stayed where he was.
Crowe strode past him and performed the task instead, pulling the chair out from the table and sliding it under Simone when she sat down.
Preacher took the seat at the other end. He didn’t see any reason to be completely rude, so he removed his hat and set it on the table beside him.
Crowe picked up the bottle of wine that sat on the table and filled both their glasses. Then he put food on their plates and served them before withdrawing to stand at the side of the room. With anyone else, Preacher suspected, Crowe wouldn’t accept being treated like a servant, but he seemed not to mind serving Simone LeCarde.
“Please,” she said, “we’ll eat, and then we’ll talk.”
“Well . . . it’s true I ain’t had supper yet.” Preacher glanced at Crowe. “Was about to, but then I got interrupted.”
Preacher dug in. The chicken was roasted perfectly, and the potatoes were equally tasty. He was no expert on wine, but what was in his glass was good, too.
Simone ate with a healthy appetite, which Preacher liked. Women who picked at their food always annoyed him. He had found that women who liked to eat enjoyed other pleasures as well and generally were more honest, too.
Honest might not be a very good description of Simone LeCarde, he reminded himself. If the rumors about the fictitious “Simon” were true, with her taking the place of an imaginary male, that could well be the biggest criminal in the city sitting at the other end of the table from him.
“This was mighty good grub,” he commented when he finished the food on the plate in front of him.
“Thank you. I prepared it myself.”
“Really? Somehow you don’t strike me as the sort of gal who’d do much cookin’.”
Simone cocked her head to the side. “And why is that? Am I not feminine enough?”
“You’re plenty feminine,” Preacher told her. “I just figured you had your plate full with other things . . . like runnin’ most of the crime here in New Orleans.”
She laughed and said, “You’ve been listening to rumors about me, haven’t you? Or rather, about Simon. You can’t believe everything you hear, Preacher.”
“Are you sayin’ you don’t have any crooked dealin’s or offer protection to lawbreakers who can pay your price?”
She sipped her wine and regarded him coolly over the rim of her crystal wineglass. “You sound like a man who’s looking for someone.”
“Didn’t say that. I’m just curious what I’m doin’ here.”
“Very well.” Simone placed her glass back on the table. “The time has come for blunt talk. Does it bother you when a woman speaks plainly, Preacher?”
“Not one little bit,” the mountain man replied.
“Good, because I prefer to speak my mind. I saw the fight that took place earlier.”
“I already told Mr. Crowe that I can’t pay for the damages.”
Simone waved a hand dismissively and managed to make the gesture look elegant. “I don’t care about the damages. A few broken tables and chairs are nothing. I’m more interested in the man right in the thick of the violence.”
“That fella Shugart started it.”
“I know. I’m familiar with Shugart. He’s a bully and a braggart, and he’s caused trouble here before. I’ve instructed Long Sam that he’s no longer welcome at the Catamount’s Den.”
“Long Sam bein’ the little fella with the shotgun who sits at the door,” Preacher guessed.
“That’s right. Don’t underestimate him because of his size.”
Preacher shook his head. “I wouldn’t hardly do that. I’ve got a friend who’s a lot like him, and Audie’s just about the smartest, toughest fella I know.”
“At any rate,” Simone continued, “this wasn’t the first fight Shugart started . . . but it was the first one he lost. It caught my interest when someone was able to defeat an animal like him.”
“I didn’t see you in there watchin’ the ruckus.”
“I’m only seen when I want to be, like now. And that doesn’t happen very often.”
Crowe spoke up. “It never happens. You have no idea what an honor it is for you to even be here, Preacher.”
“Forgive Balthazar,” Simone said. “He’s quite devoted to me, just as he was to my father.”
“Catamount Jack,” Preacher said. “I’ve heard about him, too.” He looked at Crowe. “Were you part of his pirate crew?”
The cool, slightly mocking smile on Simone’s face disappeared instantly. She held up a hand to stop whatever reply Crowe was about to make.
“Balthazar sailed with my father,” she said, “and so did Long Sam. But none of them were pirates. They were privateers, operating under letters of marque during the war against th
e British in 1812. That’s not the same thing at all.”
Preacher shook his head. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve spent most of my life on dry land, if you don’t count riverboats and canoes and rafts and such. Never been on the high seas and don’t know a thing about it other than what I’ve heard.”
“Well, you can take my word for it, then,” Simone snapped. “My father was not a pirate.”
“All right. I didn’t mean no offense.”
Simone smiled again. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to lose my temper. I’m just a bit sensitive on the subject of my father, that’s all.” She reached for her wine, took another sip, and went on. “Now, as I started to say, you caught my interest, Preacher, and I wanted to know more about you. That’s why I had Long Sam follow you back to the place where you’re staying and then asked Balthazar to bring you here for supper with me. I’d like to know more about you.”
“There ain’t much to tell,” Preacher said. “I’m a fur trapper, most of the time. Now and then I sign on to guide a wagon train or some such. I’ve spent most of my time in the Rockies for the past twenty years or more.”
“You must have seen some spectacular sights.”
“The scenery’s pretty impressive,” Preacher admitted.
“And survived a great many dangers, too.”
“My share of ’em, that’s for sure. Includin’ run-ins with a few mountain lions, like the one painted on your sign outside.”
“That was Long Sam’s work. He has surprising talents.”
“I’m sure he does. If you don’t mind me askin’ a question . . .”
“Please, go ahead,” Simone replied with another of those languid, elegant gestures.
“If your pa was a seagoin’ man, how’d he wind up bein’ called Catamount Jack? You don’t run into too many of those critters out on the ocean, I expect.”
“He didn’t spend his entire life at sea,” she explained. “In fact, when he was a young man, he lived in the mountains in Tennessee. They had big cats there, and when he was little more than a child, he was attacked by one of them. All he had to defend himself with was a knife. But he killed that beast and survived it trying to maul him, even though he was badly hurt.”
“Sounds like a tough fella, all right.”
Simone nodded. “He was. After that, people started calling him Catamount Jack, instead of plain Jack LeCarde, and the name stuck.” She paused. “The same way some incident must have make people start calling you Preacher. I can’t imagine that your mother gave you that name.”
“Well, the truth is, she didn’t. But that’s what folks have been callin’ me for a whole heap of years, so I’ve gotten used to it. Don’t know that I’d answer to anything else.”
“That’s what I’ll call you, then.” Simone studied him intently across the table for a long moment, then she picked up her wineglass and said, “Here’s to the success of our continued association.”
Preacher frowned. “What association is that?”
“I’ve made up my mind,” Simone said. “I want you to go to work for me.”
CHAPTER 20
Preacher reached for his wineglass and took a sip to conceal his surprise and give him a second to think, although he had a feeling Simone was canny enough she might know what he was doing. As he set the glass back on the table, he said, “I don’t see what I’d do for you. I don’t know a blasted thing about runnin’ a tavern.”
“You know the fur business, though. You said yourself that you’ve been trapping for many years. I’ve been thinking about trying to establish some new enterprises. Perhaps expand into another city . . .”
“Like St. Louis?” Preacher suggested. He shook his head. “I can tell you right now, that wouldn’t be a smart thing to do.”
“And why not?” she asked. “I should make it clear that I’m not necessarily talking about anything, well, illegal. I thought perhaps investing in the fur business would be a shrewd idea. But I would need someone on hand to make sure that everything was done properly.”
“Yeah, it might have been a good idea . . . ten or fifteen years ago. But these days . . . The way it looks to me, the fur business will be just about dried up and blowed away in another few years. People don’t wear beaver hats the way they used to. From what I hear, the rich folks are startin’ to favor silk top hats, and they’re the only ones who have the money to buy such foofaraws. I know the last load of pelts I sold, I didn’t get near as much for it as I used to.”
And that money had been stolen by Edmund Cornelius and Lucy Tarleton, he thought—two people who might be under Simone’s protection even now. Preacher warned himself to tread carefully here. He didn’t want to tip her off to his real goal too soon.
Simone frowned as she looked across the table at him. “You really believe things are that bad where the fur business is concerned?”
“I can only go by what I see,” Preacher replied with a shrug. “There ain’t as many fellas trappin’ as there used to be. There’s fewer of ’em at the big rendezvous every year. And they’re makin’ less money at it. That ain’t somethin’ I’d want to jump into with both feet.”
“And yet you’re still spending most of your time in the mountains, trapping,” Simone pointed out.
Preacher grinned. “I don’t hardly know how to do anything else. Anyway, I’m gettin’ too long in the tooth to change my ways now. Reckon I’ll stay with it as long as there’s any money to be made at all. As long as I can pay for the supplies for another trip, that’s all I really need.”
“I have to say, this discussion hasn’t gone the way I hoped it would,” Simone said as she sat back and shook her head. “I was looking forward to trying something new and having you represent my interests, Preacher, but if you’re right in your assessment, I doubt the effort would be worthwhile.”
“I’m just tellin’ you the truth, the way I see it.”
“I appreciate that.” She smiled. “At least you got a good meal out of the invitation.”
Balthazar Crowe said, “And discovered a secret he need not have known.”
“I think we can trust Preacher not to reveal anything that he shouldn’t.” Simone raised an eyebrow at him. “Can’t we?”
“Sure,” the mountain man agreed. “New Orleans ain’t my city. It don’t matter that much to me what goes on here.”
His natural tendency toward honesty and straight talk had led him to approach this the wrong way, he realized now. He should have played along with Simone’s plan so that he could stay closer to her and maybe pick up the trail of Edmund Cornelius and Lucy Tarleton. It didn’t matter whether her idea of moving in on the fur trade was a good one or not, and he didn’t believe for a second her claim that she wanted to get involved with it legally. She was his only lead to the thieves who had stolen his and Charlie’s money and nearly killed the young man. Probably he had just talked her out of having anything more to do with him.
He was just in the habit of being too blasted honest, he told himself. Now Simone might send him on his way, and he wouldn’t be any closer to finding his quarry.
She eased that worry by saying, “Balthazar, you can go on back downstairs now.”
“Long Sam can handle anything that comes up down there,” Crowe said, frowning.
“And I can handle anything up here,” Simone responded with a sharp edge in her voice.
Preacher could tell that Crowe didn’t like it at all, but the big man was accustomed to doing whatever Simone LeCarde told him to do.
After a moment during which their gazes briefly dueled, he bowed slightly and murmured, “Whatever you wish, of course, mademoiselle.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll summon you if I have need of you,” she told him.
With obvious reluctance, Crowe left the room. Preacher supposed another flight of stairs led down to the tavern itself, in addition to the one that opened onto the alley.
Simone stood up and went along the table toward Preacher, taking her glass and the bottle of wine
with her. She poured wine in each of their glasses, then leaned a hip against the table as she looked down at the mountain man. She held out her glass, and he clinked his against it.
“Even though my plans didn’t work out, I’m still glad I had Balthazar bring you here tonight,” she said. “I was curious about the sort of man who could defeat Shugart. Not many would ever even challenge a brute such as that to start with.”
“I didn’t exactly challenge him,” Preacher pointed out. “Just stood up for myself when he tried to run roughshod over me.”
“And you don’t allow that from anyone, do you?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t.”
She cocked an eyebrow again. “What if it’s a woman you’re up against?”
Preacher shook his head slowly. “I don’t fight with women.” He remembered the Blackfoot woman called Winter Wind, who considered herself a warrior and had made it her business to try to kill Preacher and Hawk That Soars—and had almost succeeded. “Well, not usually, anyway.”
Simone drank more of her wine, then set the glass on the table and leaned closer to Preacher. “Maybe we can think of some other way we could work together, if you don’t think the fur business is a good idea.”
“You mean here in New Orleans?”
“This is my home,” she said, her voice not much more than a whisper now. “I don’t intend to leave it.”
She was close enough that it was obvious what she intended. Preacher didn’t pull away. Simone was a beautiful woman, and even though she was a criminal, at least according to everything he had heard, he found himself powerfully attracted to her. She leaned in more and kissed him.
Her lips were warm and soft and tasted as sweet as they looked. The kiss was not a hard, passionate one, but it packed enough rising heat and urgency to bring Preacher to his feet when Simone pulled away and stepped back.
His arms went around her and brought her body against his. In the back of his mind, the thought that this might be a trick or a trap of some sort lingered, but he felt confident in his ability to take care of himself. He lowered his head and his mouth found hers again. Her arms went around his neck and tightened.
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