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“Whiskey?” Her chin lifted a notch. “Amelia Bloomer says that liquor is the devil’s own hell’s broth. Look what trouble those poor Indian braves encountered after drinking Mr. Douglas’s whiskey, besides—”
“Who the hell is Amelia Bloomer?”
She sniffed. “Amelia Bloomer is the publisher of Lily, a very respected ladies’ periodical—”
“You’re in Nevada, Little Miss Sunshine, not New York City. Here, whiskey is medicine, among other things.” He turned and shot out of the wagon while he still could. He swore, then put on his hat while he trudged to his saddlebags. He reached inside, pulled out the bottle of whiskey and gulped a generous swig himself. Noelle’s shadow was silhouetted against the schooner’s stretched canvas, reminding him of her every feminine curve, much to his consternation.
Damn, what did he ever do to deserve this temptation? He swallowed, then strode back toward the tailgate. He could force himself to be a gentlemen for one more day. But once they reached Crooked Creek, that lady was on her own, Uncle Marcel or no Uncle Marcel.
“I said I don’t drink spirits.”
He pulled out the cork and handed the jug to her. “This might be the only thing that will keep you from catching a fever. Just how far will we get if you get sick, huh? Now, take a swig. You won’t go to hell—I promise.”
She shot him a reproachful glance. “Very well, I’ll take one taste if you promise to quit pestering me.” She closed her eyes, held her nose with two fingers, then took a mouthful and swallowed.
Her eyelids flew open, and she gave a choked cough.
Nick grabbed the bottle from her before she dropped it. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? I bet ol’ Amelia Bloomer couldn’t have belted one down any better.”
Noelle managed a scathing glare before she coughed again. Finally, she inhaled a deep gasp of breath.
Nick grinned. “Now get out of those wet clothes. When you’re dressed, blow out the lantern. G’night Miss Bellencourt.”
Noelle heard him climb down the back of the wagon. The whiskey burned a path straight to her belly, and already she felt flushed from the experience. Or was it Luke Savage?
What was she feeling? She wasn’t afraid of him, of that she was certain. Luke was nothing like the men who would frequent Harrison’s tavern late at night, ogling her when she came home from the theater. Maybe that was it. She had never met anyone quite like him.
Her pulse quickened when she recalled how Luke had stared at her. Soaked to the skin, he was justifiably angry. But she recognized the dark and mysterious way that his eyes brightened when his gaze raked over her.
Desire.
She’d admit that it was desire that stirred her being when he grabbed her waist, earlier. When she began to touch his leather vest, she felt him tense beneath her touch, and in that fleeting moment...
Nonsense. What she felt was appreciation, nothing more. She was grateful to him, and Uncle Marcel would repay his services once they arrived in Crooked Creek. Then she could forget Luke.
And they would arrive safely, thanks to Luke. Yes, it was gratitude she felt and nothing else.
She removed her wet garments and put on a high-necked cotton nightgown. After blowing out the lantern, she turned her bedroll over, then curled up to sleep. “Pleasant dreams, Mr. Savage.”
Luke’s low mumbling from beneath the wagon renewed her feeling of safety. She closed her eyes, content.
“Come on, Sunshine, time to wake up!”
Noelle opened one eyelid and peered into the darkness. A few inches from her, Luke leaned on one elbow and smiled down at her. He lay on a rumpled bedroll, the horse blanket hugging his shoulders.
Noelle jerked her head up. “Wh-what are you doing in my wagon?”
Luke’s mouth tipped slightly. “I was sleeping. What did you think?”
She gasped, unable to hide her astonishment. “I didn’t give you permission to—”
“No sense asking for something you can’t get,” Luke drawled. “Besides, only a fool would sleep in a mud hole if there’s a dry space available.” He stretched lazily. “C’mon. The storm has stopped. I noticed you’ve got dry kindling under the wagon. You make the fire, I’ll be back in a while.”
Noelle clasped her shawl in front of her and pointed to the closed curtains at the rear. “Now that you’re awake, get out!”
Luke raked back the hair from his face. “Jeezzo, woman! Are you always this snappish in the morning?”
“Out!” She grabbed his bedroll and blanket, tossing them after him. His deep chuckle made her cheeks burn.
After he left, Noelle took a deep breath, then tried to calm herself. But his words plagued her mind: Only a fool would sleep in a mud hole if there’s a dry space available.
She sighed. What he had said made a logical sense, so very much like Luke. After all, his gear was soaked because of her—although it had been an accident. And with all that he’d done for her, how could she begrudge him a dry place to sleep?
She peered out the back of the wagon. Early dawn hugged the prairie in a stretch of deep violet shadow.
“Mr. Savage?” she called into the stillness.
Only the buckskin’s answering whinny disturbed the silence. The horse was tethered to the side of the wagon. Perhaps Luke had gone to fetch the oxen. When he returned, she’d apologize for her testy words.
By the time Noelle had finished dressing, Luke hadn’t returned. The unbidden thought that something might have happened to him flashed through her mind.
Tossing her shawl around her shoulders, Noelle grabbed the rifle and set out to look for him. Even a man as invincible as Luke Savage was vulnerable to wild animals and Indians, although he probably didn’t think so.
Her shoes sucked in the mud as she strode through the prairie, her eyes becoming accustomed to the half light. Although it should be easy to follow his steps in the wet sand, it was still too dark to see them. The storm rumbled in the distance; the moon hid behind low clouds.
Mesquite and sage hung heavy with last night’s rain, splattering her skirts with droplets as she strode past. She moved along the swaying shadows of brush, while visions of crouching sharp-fanged beasts or Indians with raised tomahawks intruded on her logic. Her heart began to pound. Had a pack of wolves or bandits sneaked up on Luke when he’d untied the oxen?
No, she would have heard something. Then where was Luke? Maybe he was disgusted with her earlier bad temper and felt she needed to be taught a lesson.
No. He wouldn’t deliberately cause her to worry. The idea surprised her, and the thought made her realize that not only could she trust him, but she knew he’d protect her, even with his life.
The thought gave her pause. Luke Savage was basically a decent man, despite the darker side of him that she’d rather not know about. Gambling—the social ill of the lowest kind. But she sensed he’d do her no harm, and for that, she’d be eternally grateful.
A coyote howled in the distance. She trembled, pulling the shawl tighter about herself. Maybe she should have started a fire before she went to look for Luke. Without a campfire to keep away wild animals, the coyotes, hungry and smelling the oxen, were a threat.
The wind picked up, cool and damp with the smell of sage. Noelle sidestepped a large tumbleweed rolling toward her, safely avoiding its sharp prickers.
So, where was Luke? The fine hairs on her forearms tingled. She took a deep breath, wilting herself to keep a calm head as Luke would do.
Suddenly, a whiff of something dreadfully familiar drifted on the wind. Her head lifted toward the scent of death. Since her journey West, she had smelled its presence more times than she cared to remember.
Bracing herself, she picked her way slowly toward the source of the stench. The area of the prairie grew open, flat and sparse of grass. After a few minutes, she hesitated, wondering if she should wander so far from camp. She glanced over her shoulder, astonished at how far she’d walked. She should return to the wagon. Then after sunrise, she would return to pursue her curiosity. Besides, maybe Luke had come back and was searching for her.
Before Noelle had time to turn around, she heard a whisper of movement beneath the wide branches of a mesquite bush. She wheeled around to see a hunched figure in the shadows. Her mouth went dry. She raised the rifle to take aim, while juggling the lamp. Her fingers shook on the trigger as she drew the object into her sights.
“Luke? Is that you?” she called out, hopefully. The only answer was the rustling of branches as the dark shape crept closer.
“Luke?” Her voice rose to an unrecognizable pitch. Her mouth filled with the metallic taste of fear.
A feeble cry shattered the stillness as a wobbly-legged calf staggered toward her. Noelle gasped with relief. She lowered the rifle and the lantern, her heart racing like a runaway mare.
Not more than a few weeks old, she’d guess. She’d witnessed many cattle births while she traveled with the wagon train.
Where was its mother? Then Noelle saw the silent, dark heap of an animal, obviously the calf’s mother, lying nearby. Her throat tightened with the harsh reality of life.
“Come here, precious,” she whispered to the orphaned calf. She knelt beside the furry animal. She rubbed the calf’s velvety white face, and checked the animal’s rib cage for broken bones. She winced at the frail little body, but the animal appeared not to be injured.
“Wait until Uncle Luke sees you,” Noelle said, smiling. She set the lantern on the ground and slung the rifle over her shoulder. When she gathered the calf in her arms, she was surprised at how tame the calf appeared to be. Poor thing. Probably too weak from hunger and thirst to protest.
“You won’t have to worry about those bad coyotes any more,” she whispered.
Its saucer-size brown eyes gazed up at her with such innocence, that Noelle felt her throat strain with unshed tears. She hugged the calf and strode purposely in the direction of the wagon.
When she arrived at the camp, the horse whinnied, but there was no sign of Luke. Her worry returned. Although she wanted to search for him, she decided she’d wait until the sun rose. By then, she wouldn’t need the light, but she wouldn’t forget to retrieve the lantern where she left it in the prairie. She put the rifle down near the wagon.
The calf uttered a weak, mooing sound. She patted its head while she thought. It would be dawn within the hour. If Luke wasn’t back by then, she’d follow his tracks to see where he’d gone.
The calf nuzzled against her warmth, and she rubbed her fingers across the pink nose. The animal grabbed her finger, sucking hard. Noelle felt a pang of sympathy for the starving animal. She felt inside its mouth; a row of teeth protruded along the lower gum, but the upper gum was bare. She picked up the calf and placed it down inside the wagon, then she rummaged through the sparse food supplies. The only suitable food she had was canned milk and cornmeal.
She jumped down from the wagon and opened the trail box, but nothing she found would provide a container to give the calf a drink. The buckskin whinnied nervously, pawing the ground, as though jittery that its master hadn’t returned.
Noelle glanced toward the horse, then noticed Luke’s leather gloves shoved under the ties on the saddle. She took one of the large gloves and tried it on her right hand.
Yes, this would do nicely. She smiled as she strode to the water barrel. First, she’d poke a hole in the finger, then fill the glove with milk mixed with water. At least it would provide the calf with immediate nourishment until she made a gruel out of cornmeal. When they were on the trail and into better pasture conditions, she’d cut needle grass for the poor little thing.
With a knife, she poked a small hole in the fingertip of the sturdy leather. She winced at what Luke might say. But when she arrived in Crooked Creek, she’d ask Uncle Marcel to advance her enough money to purchase a pair of gloves for Luke from her first week’s wages.
Luke’s long strides gained ground as he strode in the direction of the prairie schooner. Coffee. Black and hot. Sizzling bacon and a pile of feathery flapjacks as only Hoot, the cook at the Crooked Creek’s café can make ’em. Luke groaned at the tempting images in his mind as his stomach growled louder than a grizzly.
If only Luke had kept riding instead of following the dead man’s tracks back to Noelle’s wagon. By now, he’d be waking up beside Jubilee at the Silver Hearts Saloon, well rested, with all of his needs deeply sated.
Instead, he’d have one more day of walking through prairie, back to town, leading a team pulling a busted wagon, with nothing to quiet his appetite but beef jerky. He swore as he shoved the binoculars back in the case and looped the strap around his neck.
Appetite, hell. What bothered him wouldn’t be satisfied by food, damn him. Noelle Bellencourt was a hindrance he couldn’t afford. Yet she ignited a flame in him that grew each time he saw her.
He swallowed, remembering how she’d looked when he crawled into the wagon, drenched from last night’s storm. He’d made the mistake to steal a glance at her after he’d fashioned a makeshift bed from his saddlebags and blanket.
Her flaxen blond head nestled against the pillow of blankets where she lay, asleep. Even in the darkness, he’d been able to see her lovely face, framed in the white lace of her nightgown, like an angel in repose.
He’d tried not to stare, but damn, he couldn’t help himself. The memory brought an unbidden rush of feelings, feelings he didn’t want to feel. Women like Noelle Bellencourt came with a high price. Marriage. Home. Children.
He drew a deep breath. She needed a responsible man to take care of her, and she wouldn’t find him in a rough mining town like Crooked Creek. She’d learn that lesson sooner or later, and he didn’t want to be around when she did.
Early streaks of sunlight began to appear along the hilly horizon. The chimney of a lantern glimmered in the sun. Luke’s eyes narrowed as he strode toward the familiar object. When he recognized it as Noelle’s lantern, his mind raced. What the hell had she been doing this far from the wagon? And where was she now?
Luke charged toward the prairie schooner. Deuce tossed his head, nickering a welcome as the animal sensed his master approach the camp. Before Luke reached the unlit wagon and tore open the curtains, he heard Noelle’s humming from inside the wagon.
Relief, as monumental as he’d ever felt, coursed through him. When he returned his rifle into the saddle scabbard, he realized his hands were shaking. He took a calming breath, while he scratched along Deuce’s neck. The sweet sounds of Noelle’s voice drifted on the sage-scented air, and he could hardly keep himself from running inside, holding her to be sure she was all right.
What are you doing, Savage? He took another deep breath, but nothing seemed to burn the image and the resulting thoughts from his mind. He forced himself to face her.
“Miss Bellencourt. I’m back,” he called before climbing onto the tailgate and peeking inside.
Noelle glanced up from her place in the center of the wagon. In her lap was a calf, not much bigger than a large dog. She was spooning a thin, yellow liquid down the animal’s throat.
“Jeezzo, woman—”
Noelle’s smile faded, and she stiffened. “I found him while I was searching for you. His mother had died.” She frowned. “And where have you been? I was worried to death.”
“I’ve been out checking the trail ahead.”
“Why didn’t you take your horse?”
“Too noisy.”
“How could you see in the dark?”
“I was looking for campfires.” Luke studied the scrawny calf. “Besides, I can see in the dark as well as an animal.”
Her brows lifted in skepticism. “Did you see any Indians?”
“Indians are too smart to leave signs. We can only guess that they’re out there. I did see a campfire up ahead, about three hours away. With any luck, they’ll be gone by the time we get there.”
“Do you think they’re friendly?”
“Prepare for the worst.” He glanced toward her. “We’ve got to be on our way. Let the calf go.”
“What do you mean, let him go?”
Luke sighed. “We can’t take the calf. It’ll slow us down. Most of the grass around here is pale green. That means alkali. We’ll have all we can handle to keep the team away from the bad grass, without having to play nursemaid to a calf.”
Luke jumped down from the wagon and strode toward the oxen.
Noelle shot her head out the rear curtains. “Mr. Savage, may I remind you that this is my wagon and my calf.”
“The calf or me, Miss Bellencourt.” Luke’s long-legged stride didn’t falter. “It’s your call.”
Chapter Four
Unreasonable, pigheaded, mule of a man! The words remained unspoken, because Noelle refused to give him the satisfaction of arguing. Besides, she knew Luke was right. The calf would slow them down.
The calf scratched its curly head against her arm. She couldn’t help but smile at the little creature. There must be a way to convince Luke to take the calf.
She raked her fingers along the top of its chin as she thought. “Pay no attention to your bad-mannered Uncle Luke. He has a great deal on his mind. But rest assured, little one. You’ll not be left behind as a meal for the coyotes.”
The calf licked her hand with its raspish tongue, and Noelle smiled. Finding the calf was a good omen. A good omen for Luke, as well.
By the time Luke returned to the wagon from scouting ahead on the trail, Noelle sat primly on the driver’s bench, the oxen were hitched and waiting, and the calf was nowhere in sight.
