Page 11 of Comanche Magic

  "You are so sweet," he whispered. "How can that possibly be?"

  It was a question that didn't deserve an answer. And so much for his only wanting to talk, she thought bit­terly. She'd seen that look in men's eyes before, and she knew what it portended. Freeing her mouth, she said, "Mr. Wolf, is there anything I can say to change your mind about this picnic idea? I'd really prefer—"

  "Chase," he corrected, "and no, there's nothing you can say to change my mind. Accept it and enjoy the evening, that's my advice to you."

  He pushed abruptly to his feet and returned her but­tonhook to the table. She saw his dark blue eyes scan the pages of her Bible, and she wanted to kick herself for having left it open.

  "The story of Mary Magdalene, Franny?"

  To comfort herself, she read those passages at least once every day. But she would never admit that. Not that she had to. The knowing look in his gaze told her he had guessed her reasons for reading that particular story. "I'm ready to go."

  He caught one of her starched curls between his fin­gers. "Not quite." Stepping to her washstand, he moist­ened a cloth and picked up her brush. After returning to her, he set the brush aside to scrub her face. At the first touch of the cloth, Franny sputtered indignantly, which seemed to amuse him. "Don't be difficult."

  She batted at his hand. "You're taking hide and all."

  He gentled the pressure. "Then stop putting this shit on your face. You look more like a clown than that pil­low face you're embroidering."

  Franny refused to be baited. After cleaning her face, he reached for her brush before she could forestall him and began running the bristles through her stiff curls. He was surprisingly careful and took great pains not to tug on her scalp. "It really does brush right out," he said in obvious amazement.

  No man had ever brushed her hair. It seemed a highly personal thing, something a husband might do for his wife. Franny had difficulty breathing, a condition that became more pronounced with each passing second. After he had brushed out most of the starch, he ran the brush the length of her tresses with sensual slowness. She watched in frozen fascination as he let the strands escape the bristles. In the amber-touched shadows, her hair rained toward her lap like spun fibers of gold.

  "Beautiful," he whispered. "Like liquid sunshine with splashes of silver."

  Franny wrested her hair from his grasp and shoved the brush away. "I shall braid it, and then I'm ready to leave."

  Given the close quarters, escaping outdoors would be a relief. At least then she might have room to breathe. She stood, forcing him to rock back on his heels. She wished he'd fall flat on his arrogant posteri­or, but Chase Wolf was more agile than most, even with sore ribs. She didn't miss the grin that flashed across his mouth.

  So he found her amusing, did he? Deciding to forego

  a braid, which would take too much time, she gathered her hair and gave it several twists. Stepping to the mir­ror above the washstand, she picked up the scattered hairpins next to the basin and stabbed viciously at the coil atop her head, missing her mark more times than not. Liquid sunshine? Men. They were all the same. Fetching her bonnet from off its nail, she drew it on, jerking hard at the strings as she tied them. The result was that her chin hurt.

  He regarded her with a mischievous grin. "Afraid of getting freckles?"

  Franny snorted in answer to his question and swept grandly past him. Let him laugh. She didn't care. She wasn't about to explain why she planned to wear a sun- bonnet after dark. He could think whatever he liked.

  8

  The moment they were outside the saloon, Chase switched hands on the picnic basket, untied Franny's bonnet strings and removed her hat. He didn't miss the panicked expression that entered her eyes, and she made a wild grab for the sunbonnet, clearly determined to have it back.

  "It's dark, for God's sake. You don't need to keep your face hidden now."

  By her expression, he knew he had hit closer to the truth than she might have liked. She hesitated and then dropped her hand, her gaze still fixed on the bonnet.

  "I paid fifty dollars to spend this time with you," he said softly. "I'll be damned if I'll stare at the side of your hat all night."

  Determined to ignore the frightened look on her face, Chase folded the cloth bonnet and tucked it over his belt. That done, he grasped her elbow to guide her along the boardwalk, his mind racing with questions he knew would probably go unanswered. Why did she fear recognition? Was she hiding from someone?

  Studying her pale profile, Chase had to hand it to her. The starched curls and garish paint she wore while working altered her appearance so much that only a very close observer might make a connection between this prim, ladylike young woman and the prostitute who worked at the Lucky Nugget.

  Determined to make the evening as productive as he could, Chase pushed all his questions aside and released his hold on her elbow to take her hand. She looked incredulous, which made him wonder if she had ever had a beau. She was so pretty he had difficul­ty believing she hadn't. This couldn't be the first time a young man had escorted her out.

  At this end of town lay the community hall. A bit farther north was Indigo's house and the school. Chase had a destination in mind and quickened his pace as they left the boardwalk. The sound of laughter and low voices drifted to him on the night air, and he glanced up to see several couples leaving the hall. The dance must be ending. He wished he could have taken Franny to it. He could almost feel her floating in his arms to the tune of a waltz, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling with pleasure.

  Glancing down at her, he couldn't miss the look of yearning in her expression when she saw the young ladies in their finery, all escorted by attentive young men. Nor did he miss the fact that she increased their pace in an obvious attempt to hurry so no one would see her. He ached for her, unable to understand why she continued in a profession that brought her such pain. There had to be a way out for her. All he had to do was help her find it.

  Only when they drew near the schoolhouse did she relax a little, and even then only by a negligible mea­sure. Chase chose to ignore her uneasiness and led her to the playground. When she realized he meant to seat her on one of the swings, she clutched her skirt and shook her head.

  "I haven't been in a swing for years. I really don't—"

  "It's high time, then, isn't it?"

  After setting aside the basket, he pressed her down onto the seat. "Grab hold," he ordered, and then gave her no choice by grasping the ropes and hauling her back so her feet couldn't touch.

  She squeaked when he released her. Her skirt caught the wind. With one hand, she grappled to tuck its folds under her knees. God forbid that she should flash any ankle. Chase smiled to himself and settled his hands at her waist when she swung back to him. God, how he wanted to retain his hold and nuzzle the nape of her neck where those silken blond curls lay in such tempting tendrils.

  He resisted the urge and gave her another light push. Watching her, he felt a certain measure of satis­faction when he saw some of the tension drain from her shoulders. He knew damned well she wasn't always so serious and withdrawn. He wanted to work his way past those defenses of hers until she was as at ease and quick to laugh with him as she was with Indi­go and the children.

  Catching her by the waist again, he held her sus­pended for a moment, her fanny pressed against his abdomen. The back of her neck was at a perfect height for him to kiss, and he was once again sorely tempted. He imagined her skin there would feel as soft as velvet against his lips, and recalling her scent last night, he guessed she'd smell sweetly of lavender.

  But Chase had a mission in mind, and startling her with sexual advances wasn't part of his plan. He released her and followed up with another push to send her sail­ing higher than before. She squeaked in alarm again, but the little laugh that followed told him she was more exhilarated by the height than afraid.

  "You're pushing me too high. What if I fall?"

  "I'll catch you."

  "What ab
out your ribs?"

  Chase had nearly forgotten his ribs. "They're better."

  "They can't be that much better."

  "Would you let me worry about my ribs? Relax, Franny. Have a little fun for once."

  She gave a startled giggle when he gave her another push. "It seems a peculiar way for a man to waste fifty dollars."

  "I'm a peculiar fellow."

  He continued to push her until she did as he sug­gested and enjoyed herself. When he finally grew weary and drew the swing to a stop, she angled her head to look up at him, her large eyes filled with ques­tions and more than a little bewilderment. That was just how he wanted her: guessing.

  "Why did you bring me out here?" she finally asked.

  With every minute he spent in her company, his motives became more and more confusing, even to him. Evading the issue, he left her sitting there and went to fetch the picnic basket. She watched him warily as he spread a lightweight blanket under the sprawling oak at the edge of the playground. Sitting cross-legged upon the flannel, he patted a spot beside him.

  "Come on. I don't bite. At least not hard."

  She remained in the swing for a moment, clearly leery of him and suspicious of his intentions. Chase pretended not to notice and began setting out the food. Not very exciting fare, but the best he had been able to manage without asking his mother to prepare some­thing special. Corn muffins, melon, cold chicken, and a bottle of wine he had purchased especially for this occasion. He poured a measure of burgundy into each of the mugs he had brought along, acutely aware that she was finally walking in his direction, albeit slowly.

  "I hope you like cold chicken." He sank his teeth into a drumstick and fell back on one elbow, smiling at her as he chewed. "Are you hungry?"

  In truth, Franny was starving. She seldom ate an evening meal. Until that first customer came through the door each night, she was always half sick with ten­sion, and she had learned long ago that her stomach rebelled if she ate anything before her shift began. "I suppose I could have a snack."

  He gestured for her to sit down. Though she knew how swiftly he could move, having something between them, even so inadequate a barrier as a wicker basket, made her feel better. Gathering her skirt close, she sank to her knees. He watched her speculatively. Taking care to modestly cover her ankles, she cast a curious glance

  into the basket, spied another chicken leg, and hesitantly reached for it. Crisp breading. She took a small bite.

  "Mm. It's delicious."

  "My ma can flat cook."

  Shifting on his elbow, he leaned closer to the basket to search through its contents. She heard eating uten­sils clatter. An instant later, his hand emerged holding a fork with a cube of melon speared on its tines. With no warning, he pressed it upon her, leaving her little choice but to part her lips. Cantaloupe. The sweet juice from it filled her mouth, and the taste was absolutely exquisite. Gus seldom bought fresh fruit, it wasn't something his intoxicated customers generally liked to eat. She sometimes had fruit at Indigo's house, of course, but otherwise she went without.

  After swallowing, it occurred to her that the melon was not yet in season. Surprised, and momentarily for­getting her wariness, she asked, "Where on earth did you get cantaloupe?"

  "Jeremy, Indigo's brother-in-law. You know, Jake's brother? He was just down in California, and he stopped off here on his way back to Portland. He brought Ma a whole crate of melons. They weren't quite ripe, so she wrapped them in paper to sweeten them up. Now we've got cantaloupe coming out our ears."

  That sounded heavenly to Franny, and she wished she had some to take home to her mother the following weekend. Cantaloupe was Mary Graham's favorite fruit. "Melon nearly two months early? I can scarcely believe it, and it tastes so good. Who'd think it would ripen wrapped in paper?"

  "California has a much longer growing season. Sunshine, and tons of it. Folks down there have tanned faces year around, practically."

  "And Oregonians rust," she put in.

  "Spoken like a native webfoot, or I miss my guess. Where were you born, Franny? Anyplace close?"

  Heat flooded to her cheeks. He was clearly waiting for her to make a slip, and she couldn't allow him to lull her into forgetting that. "A strawberry patch, I told you."

  "But not a patch here in Wolf's Landing. If so, you would've gone to school here, and I don't remember you."

  "Perhaps I never went to school."

  "My ass. You're too well-spoken for that to be the case. I've got an ear for poor grammar. My aunt Amy was hell on greased runners about our using proper English."

  "I've done a lot of reading."

  "And who taught you to read?"

  Franny sighed. "A teacher, of course. I attended school until my thirteenth year. Then I had to quit."

  Chase's throat tightened. Thirteen. Little more than a baby. Christ. "Is that when you became a working girl?"

  "Shortly after that."

  "At thirteen?"

  "Yes."

  "Son of a bitch." Chase threw away his drumstick. He wanted to throw more than that. The picnic basket, maybe. A child selling her flesh to men. "Where the hell was your father? Didn't you have one?"

  "No. He died in an accident."

  "And left you an orphan?"

  She hesitated. "Yes. An orphan."

  An accomplished liar, she wasn't. "And no one offered to take you in?"

  She averted her face. After a long moment, she said, "I've said all I'm going to say. If you brought me out here to ask me questions, I'm going back."

  Chase knew she meant it. He went back over their conversation, trying to recall what they'd been talking about before he'd gotten off track. California. Webfeet. Safe ground. "Would you like some more cantaloupe?"

  "No, thank you."

  He'd spoiled her pleasure in it, and he wanted to kick himself. Eventually he'd learn all he wanted to know about her, but the process couldn't be rushed. "You ever been to California?"

  "No. I've met people from there." Clearly striving to regain her composure, she took a deep breath, exhaled shakily, and then forced a tremulous smile. "They all look rich. I know they can't be, of course, but there's something about them—an air of sophisti­cation. And they all wear store-bought clothes. Have you noticed that?"

  "Not all of them. Maybe all the ones you've seen. Folks who can afford stage fare are usually well-heeled, I reckon. I saw poor folks down there as well as rich. The only thing most of them had in common, to my recollection, was faces as brown as raisins."

  "Even the ladies?"

  His mouth tightened slightly. "No, not the ladies, of course. They protect their skin." Touching her hat where it was still tucked under his belt, he added, "With sunbonnets, mostly."

  "Far prettier ones than that, I'd venture."

  "Some of them. Truth to tell, I didn't have much truck with ladies while I was there."

  Something in his expression and the way he said "ladies" told her his visit there had been unpleasant. She couldn't resist asking, "What took you down that way?"

  "Timber. I logged in the redwoods for a spell. During a layoff, I went farther south looking for other work. If you think it gets hot here, you should be down there in the summer. Eggs'd fry on a wagon seat."

  "Well, all that sun certainly makes for wonderful-tasting melon."

  "It's even sweeter if it ripens on the vine." He took a sip of wine and winked at her over the rim of his cup. "Kind of like strawberries."

  Franny seldom allowed herself more than a few sips of liquor, wine included, but tonight she decided to make an exception. Chase made her tense. She couldn't block him out as she did other men. Not in these circumstances, at least. She took a taste of the burgundy and gazed longingly at the basket, wishing for more melon. As if he read her thoughts, he speared another cube and offered it to her. This time she didn't demur. Leaning forward, she seized it with her teeth. To her dismay, juice spurted.

  He groaned and wiped his eyes. Horrified, Franny gulped the mout
hful of fruit. "Oh, dear! I'm sorry."

  Parting his fingers, he peeked out at her, his smile laced with devilment. "Gotcha."

  She gave a startled laugh. "You're impossible."

  "Ain't I just?"

  He chuckled and returned his attention to his chicken.

  Franny did likewise. A comfortable silence settled over them, which she found difficult to credit. She took another sip of wine, wondering if its lulling effects could be the reason she was beginning to feel so relaxed.

  Chase devoured two more pieces of chicken before she finished her first. She noticed that he left half the bowl of melon cubes for her. While she finished eating, he rolled onto his back to regard the starlit sky. Franny lingered over the meal, dreading the moment when her mouth would no longer be full and he would expect her to start talking again. She had no idea what more she might say to him. One could only discuss can­taloupe and Californians for so long.

  Eventually, though, her stomach began to feel full, and she knew if she kept eating, she'd make herself sick. After tossing the scraps into the darkness for the wild animals, she began wiping the plates with a nap­kin and putting the food away. When she reached for the wine jug, he said, "Leave that out. I don't know about you, but I'd like some more."

  Franny wasn't at all sure she should join him. But when he sat up to refill their mugs, he didn't extend her the courtesy of a choice. He simply poured her more wine and handed her the cup. She accepted it without comment. Crossing his legs and tucking his heels snugly under his thighs, he winced and leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. Though his ribs were clearly pain­ing him, he was surprisingly agile for so tall and well- muscled a man. He looked so comfortable she spread her skirts and assumed the position herself.

  His eyes warming on hers, he said, "You would have made a real pretty little squaw with that silver-blond hair and those big green eyes. In my father's day, some enterprising young warrior would have stolen you. With that hair, he could have gotten a hundred horses for you, and that's low bid."