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He felt an odd protectiveness toward Jeanne Nicolet. Maybe because she was a foreigner, struggling for a livelihood on the rough western frontier, as his mother had. Maybe because she was so delicate she couldn’t hold up a rifle for more than four minutes. Maybe just because she was a woman. Whatever it was, he couldn’t get the feeling out of his head: she liked him. And he liked her. She was all woman, and he was a man.
Damn, that did soothe a broken man’s sense of worth.
Rooney was waiting on the board walkway outside the Golden Partridge when Wash got there, his thumbs stuffed into his denim pockets. The early evening light glowed through the larch trees, turning them into shimmering gold torches. He sure liked these long days, but his stomach told him it was suppertime. Plenty of time to enjoy his steak and beans and linger with Rooney over his coffee. Ever since that Yankee prison at Richmond he’d hated eating in the dark.
He heaved a sigh of satisfaction. He’d survived the War and the Indian skirmishes on the plains, and now he held a good job with the Oregon Central Railroad. The railway fed some hunger inside himself he was only now beginning to recognize.
After the chaos and destruction he’d seen, he longed for order. As the iron tracks spread from town to town across the western frontier he recognized at long last some peaceful purpose in life. Washtubs for farm wives; bolts of calico and denim for their sons and daughters; sacks of seed for the ranchers. It felt good to be part of something growing, even something as inanimate as an iron railroad track. He was building something instead of blasting it to smithereens.
He figured he was a lucky man; he had a satisfying job. And his life was…well, it was satisfying, too. Except for Jeanne Nicolet. He wished he could get her off that land. He wished he could get her out of his mind.
“How come you workin’ the crew so late?” Rooney swung the hinged saloon door open and Wash dismounted, tied General to the hitching rail and hauled off his saddle. He strode inside and dropped his burden just inside the door.
“Not working late. The crew finished early. I let ’em go around sunset.”
“Well, they ain’t back yet. The blond kid rode in ’bout an hour ago, but Handy and that tall Spaniard weren’t with them.”
An icicle clunked into Wash’s belly. Dammit, were they loitering out in Green Valley? Near Jeanne’s farm?
Wash pushed the swinging door back open and peered down the street. A puff of dust signaled a rider about half a mile from town. “That’s probably them now,” he muttered.
Handy clopped into town on his sorrel, headed straight for the saloon, and tied up his mount next to General.
“Where’s Montez?” Wash yelled.
“Dunno,” the big-bellied man replied. “Went back for somethin’.”
Wash’s heart dropped into his boots. “For what?”
Handy jerked his head up at the steely tone of Wash’s voice.
“Dunno, boss. Have to ask him when he gets in.”
Wash had a pretty good idea what would keep Montez hanging around Green Valley. He hoisted his saddle onto one shoulder and bumped past Handy just as the burly man punched through the saloon doors.
Rooney poked his head out the door. “What about yer supper? Rita’s savin’ a big steak for ya.”
Wash tossed the saddle over General’s back and bent to tighten the cinch. “Tell Rita I’ll eat it later.” He mounted, turned the animal back toward the valley and dug in his spurs.
He rode as fast as he could, but it was full dark by the time he reached the lookout from where he could survey the farm. The entire valley was shrouded in black as thick as a velvet curtain save for a soft glow of light from inside the tiny cabin. He pulled up and listened for hoofbeats.
Nothing. He could hear chickens scrabbling in the crude shelter Jeanne had nailed together, and now and then a spurt of melody from an evening song sparrow somewhere in the maples. All seemed peaceful save for intermittent rustling among the lavender bushes. Rabbits, maybe?
But no Montez. He peered through the darkness at the trail that led down to the gate, but he could see nothing. He’d best pick his way down the hillside and check the—
A thin cry floated up to him from the direction of the cabin. Then another, this one sounding choked off.
He kicked General hard and let the gelding find its own footing through the blackness. At the bottom where the trail leveled off he didn’t stop to dismount; he jumped the horse over the gate and pounded up the narrow path toward the cabin.
Chapter Six
In the circle of light from the cabin Wash spied the back of a tall, dark-shirted man bent over something. A blue gingham ruffle poked from between his legs. A woman’s choked cry stopped his breath, and then he heard the crack of a palm against flesh. The man twisted away, one hand pressed to his flaming cheek.
“Ow! You hellcat…”
Sounded like she’d lambasted him a good one. Wash couldn’t help but congratulate her.
Montez lunged at her. “You think I am not good enough for you, is that it? Because my skin is not white, like yours?”
Wash sprinted onto the porch, caught the attacker’s thick shoulder and spun the man toward him. Then he smashed his fist into the side of the Spaniard’s jaw.
Montez dropped like a felled tree and rolled off the porch. Wash peered over the edge at the crumpled form on the ground and tried not to smile. Out cold.
“Is… Is he killed?” Jeanne quavered from the cabin doorway.
“Naw.” He turned toward her. She was trembling so violently the ruffles down the front of her gingham shirtwaist fluttered. She gazed at him blankly.
“Jeanne.” He stepped in front of her to get her attention.
“Did he hurt you?”
“Oui. H-he take my wrist, so.” She extended her arm. A crimson handprint bloomed on her skin.
“Manette? Is she safe?”
The ghost of a smile flitted across Jeanne’s lips. “Oui. She hides in the ch-chicken house. I send her there when that m-man knocks on my door.”
Wash stared at her. She might be shaken, but she’d showed admirable presence of mind in the face of danger. He’d seen army lieutenants fold up under less.
But her face was still white as chalk, and suddenly she sank onto the porch in a froth of white petticoats.
“Oh,” she exclaimed. “Forgive me, but I c-cannot…”
Wash extended his hand. He pulled her up so close to him he could smell the spicy-sweet scent of her hair and an odd, hungry feeling burrowed into his gut.
Damn. He ached to pull her into his arms. Something about this woman made him aware of how lonely he was. How hungry he was.
He wanted her. Hell’s bells, any man would want her. But with Jeanne it was more than that. He liked her looks, her spirit. Liked her oddly inflected words. He liked talking to her. Jumping jennies, he just plain liked the woman.
He swallowed hard. “What did Montez want?”
One hand flew to her throat. “He…he wanted to kiss me.”
Wash could sure understand that. Kissing her was something he himself had been thinking a lot about for the past two days. And nights.
A stifled groan floated up from the ground. Wash stepped off the porch and straddled the Spaniard. Dragging him upright by the back of his shirt, he planted a boot in his backside.
Damned randy snake.
“Get out of here, Montez. And don’t come back. Pick up your pay from Rooney at the saloon.”
Without looking at him, the Spaniard slouched unsteadily down the path and through the gate.
Wash couldn’t look at Jeanne; he felt responsible. But she pinned him with an unflinching eye. “I do not like that those men come here.”
Wash blew out a long breath. “Those men are my work crew for the railroad that’s coming. A different crew will be here in a day or two to start clearing brush.
“Brush? What brush?”
Wash hesitated, gazing out into the darkness, envisioning Jeanne’s lush fields of lavender glowing in the sun. God help him, he couldn’t say it. Couldn’t tell her the clearing crew was getting paid to chop down her precious crop.
“Brush,” he echoed. “You know, tickle grass and small trees.” He shot a look at her face. “Anything that’s uh, in the way of laying track.”
She turned to him, eyes narrowing. “I will not have such men at my farm.”
“Jeanne, don’t you understand?” Anger hardened his voice. “It isn’t your farm. This land belongs to the railroad.”
He kept a tight rein on his nerves and watched her mouth turn down, the light in her eyes dim. Maybe she’d cry or something. Her farm had to go. He expected her to crumple in the face of her impending loss. Instead she straightened her shoulders and bit her lower lip.
“Jeanne, don’t you see? Many people will benefit from the railroad.”
She began to crease tiny folds in her muslin apron. “No, I do not see,” she blazed. “I and my Manette, we will not benefit! Do we not matter here in America?”
“Sure, you matter,” Wash growled. “Every citizen matters. That’s what this country is built on.”
“But that is not true! If many people want one thing and two people do not want it, the many will win. Is that not so?”
Wash cleared his throat. “Well, uh, yeah. That’s democracy. The majority rules.”
Her chin came up. “But is that not unfair to the not majority people? To the two that wanted something else?”
He swallowed. Now that he thought about it, yeah, it did seem unfair.
Jeanne propped her hands at her waist. “So, I and my daughter should be pushed out of our home because the people in town want a railroad, yes?”
She had a point, all right. What happened to the rights of a single individual under majority rule? Hell, he was a lawyer; he should have an answer. A war had just been fought between the North and the South over the right of a single state to secede from the union against the will of the government. So what gave Grant Sykes the right to decide that Jeanne Nicolet was not important and his Oregon Central line was?
Money, that’s what. Ownership of the land. Sykes and the Oregon Central owned this land. The whole mess made his head ache.
“Well?” she demanded. Her eyes took on the most intriguing color he’d ever seen, kind of like green tree moss after a punishing rain. But they weren’t soft like moss; they were hard as agate.
“All I know is that the railroad is coming through here. You have to get out of the way.”
She gave him a long, steely look. “I will not move,” she announced through tight lips. “Not until I harvest my lavender.”
Good Lord, her precious lavender. This woman was the most single-minded female he’d ever encountered. His mother had been stubborn, but Jeanne…Jeanne was unmovable as a brick wall.
He reached out to touch her arm. “Jeanne, listen.” Under his fingers the smooth gingham warmed with her body heat. A jolt of yearning skip-hopped into his vitals.
She was a singular woman, all right. She was the starchiest female he’d ever encountered, all prickles and “but this’s” and “but that’s.” Trying to reason with her reminded him of negotiating with an implacable Sioux chief. The Indians hadn’t wanted to move, either, and the news that most of them had died of starvation on the winter trail to the reservation made him sick to his stomach. He couldn’t stand to watch anything like that happen to Jeanne and her daughter.
But how was he going to convince her? What if he just hauled her into his arms and let her cry it out?
Because she wouldn’t cry, that’s what. Women with prickles didn’t weep. Women with prickles poked back.
“Could we sit down and talk for a minute?”
She nodded, but he noticed her chin stayed tucked close to her chest. “Oui. I will make coffee.” She called Manette in from the chicken house and opened the cabin door.
Grabbing off his hat, Wash crossed the entrance and followed her into the tiny kitchen. It smelled good, like fresh-baked bread. Four round loaves sat cooling on the wooden table.
It was quiet except for the whisper of trees in the soft wind. Good. Peace and quiet. Now he could make her see some sense.
“Jeanne…”
She kept her hands busy grinding the coffee mill and did not look up. “You like your coffee black, do you not?”
“I— Sure.” Wash turned his hat around and around in his fingers until the brim was sweat-damp. “Black is fine.”
“Bon. I, too, like it black. And strong.” She tipped the ground coffee into a waiting pot of cold water. Her hands shook so violently some of the coffee missed the pot and sifted over the counter.
Wash wiped one hand over the smooth wood, swept the spilled grounds into his hand, then looked around the tidy kitchen for some place to dump them. Finally, in desperation, he dropped them into the crown of his hat.
He stepped toward her. “Jeanne, we have to talk about—”
She moved to one side and with jerky motions began cracking eggs into an iron skillet. “In France I took my morning café with milk. Maman brought it to me in bed, and we would talk.”
The thought of her in bed made his mouth go dry. “We’re not in France,” he growled. “We’re here, in your kitchen.”
“I was only twelve,” she said quickly, running a fork through the eggs. “Maman, she was good to me. We had long talks about Papa and my little brother.”
He moved toward her. “Jeanne, you’re not twelve now.”
She turned her back to him.
Dammit. He tramped out of the front door onto the porch, paced to the steps and back three times, then wheeled and strode back into the warm kitchen. He still cradled his Stetson with the coffee grains in the crown.
Jeanne was wrapping her apron around the handle of an iron skillet of scrambled eggs, which she then yanked off the stovetop. She headed straight for him. “Très chaud. Very hot.”
“I like things hot.” He spoke without thinking, then swallowed hard. He knew she’d heard him, because she clanked the skillet down hard onto the kitchen table.
“I learn from Maman how to cook. Our hens laid many—”
That was all he could take. “Would you just stand still for one damn minute and listen?” he shot. “One thing your mama didn’t teach you was how to have a conversation!”
Jeanne sent him a look that would broil steak, and for a moment he thought he’d gotten past her defenses. But in the next second he saw he was mistaken.
“Maman,” she said in a determined tone, “had a special way with une omelette. She tip the pan just so…” Jeanne demonstrated, then pivoted away from the table and bent over the wooden sink, her back to him.
