Rose lowered her eyes against the piercing cynicism. “Are you going to make it?” she quietly asked, for this new audacious act of his was more impetuously rash than she expected even of him.
“Rose, sweetheart,” said Hazard, the thinnest edge to his lazy cadence, “I am proposing, if need be, to mortgage my soul down to its last iniquitous crumb in order to succeed … one way or another,” he finished, his voice deceptively mild. Then suddenly he grinned like a young boy, and Rose caught a rare glimpse of the splendid youth before the disenchantment had come. “Godalmighty, Rose, let’s not get morbid.” He crossed his long legs leisurely, settling in, and said with relish, “Tell me the newest scandals in town. What prominent doctor, lawyer, or clergyman is frantically fucking whom? And what prominent doctor, lawyer, or clergyman’s wife is piously fucking whom? I’ve missed the latest gossip the last weeks.”
She stared at him, reminded afresh of his effrontery and his ability to amuse—nostalgically reminded. Rose smiled then and there was a new gentleness in her voice. “Feel like your usual? Then I’ll give you a detailed account of who’s rolling whom in the hay.”
Hazard laughed easily. “Sounds wonderful.”
When she left, he slid down on his spine in the cushioned chair, sooty lashes drifting downward to rest on swarthy cheekbones. Bone-weary, he could have slept a week.
Five minutes later she brought back her own private blend of black tea with sugar and fresh cream. Hearing her return, Hazard scrubbed a hand across his eyes, straightened in the chair, and accepted the delicately painted china cup. “Thanks, Rose,” he said with a tiredness he couldn’t conceal. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had fresh cream?”
Rose knew exactly how long it had been, but she remained silent. Although their liaison had been glorious, Hazard had always kept his feelings to himself.
“If I thought the woman could take care of a cow,” he went on, “I’d buy one and bring it up there.”
“Won’t she work?” Rose asked. She would have gladly done any kind of work for Hazard, although she hadn’t done any work for years now. But she held her tongue, having learned the hard way to guard herself against the profound error of naiveté. Hazard Black had never encouraged regular female company.
He drank some tea before he replied, “She’s not used to doing much. Too many minions in her background,” he observed, amused long-lashed eyes meeting Rose’s over their teacups. “Unlike yours and mine.” Hazard was being gracious. He had, in fact, been raised as a chief’s son in a prosperous clan and never had to do anything for himself he didn’t care to do. Putting his cup out for more tea, the china incongruously dainty in his large palm, he said, “I think I’m going to need better food up there. Miner’s fare might keep me going but …” He shrugged a little.
“Getting soft on her, Hazard?” Rose quietly asked, pouring the amber liquid into his cup.
His calm face gave nothing away. It never did. Settling back, he slowly stirred sugar in. “I don’t have time to get soft on a woman. She’s insurance, nothing more.”
Rose’s eyebrows lifted provocatively and, without removing her fine eyes from Hazard, she murmured, “Nice insurance.”
He ignored the unstated implication. “I wish she could cook. Jimmy’s been coming up but his mother might put some restrictions on his visits, it seems.”
“So Molly Pernell’s jealous under all that sanctimonious religion,” Rose acutely observed.
“With,” Hazard murmured, “no good reason.”
“You might be able to convince Molly of that, Hazard, if you talked real smooth, but don’t waste the effort on me. I haven’t a sanctimonious bone in my body.”
Not inclined to get into any arguments about his sexual habits, Hazard instead asked Rose one of the favors he’d come down to ask. “With the cooking problem and need for better food, I was wondering if you’d do me a favor?”
Rose nodded her agreement.
“Could you shop for a few extra things for me here in Confederate Gulch and send them to Jimmy? He’ll bring them up with the supplies from Diamond City. I’d like some fresh fruit and vegetables. Better bread. I saw peaches and grapes in Haroldson’s window. Things like that. And strawberries, if you can find any.”
“You’re treating her well, Hazard.”
He smiled enigmatically. “Only survival, Rose. I don’t think she can burn peaches or grapes.” He grimaced faintly, remembering breakfast. “But we’ll see. So far she’s got a perfect record. Oh, and another thing …”
“A better grade of champagne for the lady?” Rose inquired with a teasing grin.
His crooked smile was as casual as his voice. Elusive, he wasn’t about to be baited tonight. “No, more practical,” he blandly answered, setting his empty cup down. “She needs clothes. I had Jimmy bring up two dresses, but they were a shade out of place in a miner’s cabin.”
“From Klein’s?”
Hazard leaned his dark head back against the glossy silk and lifted his brows. “Unfortunately.”
Rose stifled a gurgle at first and then threw her splendid chin up and laughed uproariously. Catching her breath a few seconds later, she inquired, “And Molly saw them?”
Another quick arch of his black winged brows. “So I’m told.”
“That monumental gaffe may have taken you off her list of eligible men to marry,” she teased, her grin still gloriously wide.
The pantherish black eyes widened for a moment and then settled into their slightly cynical slant. “Good. Since I have no intention of marrying anyone.”
“That’s what all men say until some sweet woman sweeps them off their feet. The Boston miss was untarnished goods, the story goes.”
“Good God,” said Hazard sharply, “are the details of her lingerie public knowledge as well?”
Rose’s violet eyes slanted half shut, undiscouraged by Hazard’s mild outburst. “Are you going to marry her?”
Two cool, friendly eyes met hers and glimmered for a moment with mocking levity. “Not me, Rose,” Hazard pleasantly replied, “guaranteed.” His voice continued lightly, as if she hadn’t asked the burning question on everyone’s mind in Confederate Gulch and Diamond City, “About the dresses now. Something sensible. I don’t know fabrics, but whatever’s practical. It’s not the Taj Mahal up there. Or,” he added, his mouth lifting into a small smile, “your reception room downstairs.”
Rose could see there was no point in pursuing her inquiry. “How did the Colonel’s fine daughter respond to the unorthodox dresses from Klein’s? Was the Boston society darling affronted?”
Chivalry restrained Hazard from the truth. He noncommittally murmured, “She’s not unduly refined,” while he recalled all too vividly the image of Blaze in the firelight, all creamy flesh and provocation, the black taffeta gown revealing more than it concealed.
“Size?” She’d asked twice already and her eyes watching Hazard had taken on a searching quality.
“I’m not sure,” he replied, finally realizing she was talking to him. “About Kate’s size, I think. A shade taller, maybe. I’m sorry it’s so vague, but, well …” His voice trailed off in an unusually indecisive manner for a nomally decisive man. Then his dark glance was suddenly direct and familiar again. “Can I count on you? Take out enough gold to cover your time, too, of course.” Untying a heavy bag of gold dust from his belt, he placed it on the lace-covered table.
Rose gazed across the small tea table at the most beautiful man she’d ever known, resting calmly in her chair, one hand relaxed on his knee, dressed tonight in white man’s clothes: black trousers, boots, long-sleeved shirt. Except for his hair, resting lightly on his shoulders, he bore no trace of his background. And even the long hair wasn’t that remarkable on the frontier. Although he had a reputation as a killer and his earlier life as a youthful warrior had been one of continual raiding, his eyes, somehow, never seemed like the eyes of a man capable of killing. They didn’t fit with the twin colts belted low on his h
ips. They were too gentle. Those heavy-browed eyes, their blackness containing a curious warmth, were trained on her attentively, waiting for her answer.
“Sure, you goddamn fool. You know I’d do anything for you.”
The handsome face, all classic bone structure and perfect planes for which the Absarokee were justly famous, broke into a smile. “Thanks.” Uncurling his lean form from its comfortable sprawl, he stood in one elegant motion. “Whatever you decide on those dresses will be fine. Four, five, six, something like that.”
Did he plan on a long internment, Rose wondered, or did the Colonel’s daughter change for dinner each evening?
“Oh, and chocolates, too.”
Rose’s eyebrows touched her hairline.
Hazard gave a brief shrug. “I like chocolates,” he said, with a half-smile.
“Sure, Hazard, sure.” Rose’s large eyes looked him over slowly. “Couldn’t talk you into staying awhile?”
Their eyes held for a moment and she saw it before he quickly repressed the emotion. “Mind if I beg off this time? I don’t trust her alone up there very long. God only knows what trouble she can get into.”
Rose smiled softly. “Whatever you say. I’m always here, though. Don’t forget. And good luck with your insurance.”
He nodded. “I’ll probably need it.” Moving to the door, he paused, one hand on the elaborate brass handle. “Some decent soap, too, would you, Rose?” he added. “Maybe Guerlain, if you can find it.”
“Guerlain? Not for you, I presume.”
He shifted slightly, his handmade boots catching the light of the oil lamps, and in the same low, quiet voice that offered only minimal explanation said, “No. She’s not used to bathing in icy creeks like I am.”
“Are you hauling water for her, Hazard? I never thought I’d see the day.” The full extent of her shock was not betrayed by the lilting cadence of her cheerful tone.
“Self-defense, dear Rose. She wouldn’t bathe every day otherwise.”
“You damn Crows … cleanest Indians I’ve ever seen. Cleanest men I’ve ever seen, come to think of it.”
“It’s easy to be clean, Rose, when you’re raised in country with clear running water. I’m trying to teach Miss Braddock that.”
“Lots of luck, Hazard, with the millionaire’s daughter.”
“Thanks. I’ll need it. She’s harder to handle than a wild pony.”
“I don’t doubt,” Rose murmured, “you’ll manage.”
“Ak-baba-dia-ba-ala-go-da-ja,” he said. “God willing.”
Rose leaned back against the velvet chaise after he left and pensively stroked her silken thigh. Hazard’s conversation tonight had been a classic in the art of unclarity. With a shadow of envy, she perceptively concluded, Jon Hazard Black was in deeper than he realized.
HAZARD let himself into the cabin without a sound. Unhurriedly, he unbuckled his gun holster, and hung it carefully on its peg near the door. He was unbuttoning his shirt when Blaze, sweetly snide, purred, “Was she good?”
He turned at the sound of her voice, his eyes searching the shadows of the room. She wasn’t in her bed. She was, he saw, after his glance moved laterally from her bed, in his; seated Indian fashion in the middle of the stacked buffalo robes. The shirt she was wearing was open enough to show a glimpse of one white breast, while her bare legs, crossed as they were, invited his eyes to the apex of her thighs. He placidly went back to unbuttoning his shirt, currently in a more benign mood than his hostile cabin-mate. Rose’s company had calmed him, bringing the world into a manageable perspective. Although she wouldn’t appreciate it if he told her, he often felt with her as he had with his mother—tranquil and renewed for the world’s next onslaught.
“You smell like a whorehouse,” Blaze resentfully remarked, the heavy floral fragrance of Rose’s perfume pervading the small cabin.
“Actually,” Hazard commented, undoing the cuff buttons of his shirt, “Rose’s scent is too expensive for ordinary whores. It’s quite popular with the society ladies out East, though.” The allusion was deliberate.
Then the fragrance struck a memory cord in Blaze’s mind. Many of her mother’s friends had favored it. Blaze, considered too young for such heavy perfume, had never used it. “That answers one question at least. She must not be ordinary.” Her lips were pursed, her expression sullen.
Hazard looked at her for a second. “Jealous?” He laid his shirt on a chair.
“Of course not,” she snapped.
“Then it doesn’t matter, does it?” He sat down to take off his boots.
“Isn’t one woman at a time enough for you?” Her tone was feline and tantrumish.
He glanced up from tugging off one boot, his hand still grasping the smooth polished heel. “But I don’t have one, do I?” he replied, amicable in an astringent way.
“Damn you, were you in bed with another woman?” Blaze wasn’t interested in deductive reasoning at the moment. The attar of roses was so cloying, she knew he hadn’t kept his distance from the woman, whoever she was, wherever she was.
“I don’t answer to you,” Hazard said, standing, his fingers moving to the buttons on the waistband of his trousers.
“I want to know!”
“So?”
“Jon Hazard Black!”
He ran an impatient hand through his hair and sighed. “Oh, hell, no, if you must know, and don’t ask me why, damned if I know.” It was, in fact, the first time in his life he’d turned Rose down. Sliding the black riding pants over his slim hips, he pulled them off and tossed them on top of his shirt. Raised in a culture where the male body was frequently unclothed, he walked over to the buffalo robes and stood above her, beautifully nude and perfectly at ease. “You’re in my bed,” he said quietly, willing his body not to betray him.
“And if I stay?” Blaze whispered.
His dark gaze, unwavering, surveyed her. “Can’t.”
“I want to.”
“I’m too tired,” he replied, his voice and manner formal, “to begin all that again. Leave or I’ll move you.”
She didn’t.
When he picked her up, she slipped her arms around his neck, laying her head into the curve of his shoulder. She felt his arms tense. Seconds later she was dropped into her bed. “Sleep well,” he said.
And she knew she would, because despite his long absence, despite the assault of pungent perfume, despite his not wanting to admit it, Hazard had not had a woman while he was gone.
Chapter 17
Jimmy didn’t arrive the next day either, and Blaze only said “I told you so” two times. Both of which Hazard ignored. “Molly must be really angry with you,” she mentioned, her voice dulcet with satisfaction. “Do you suppose I’m going to have to learn how to starch and iron shirts now?”
He was getting ready to leave for the mine and, looking up from pulling on his last boot, cast her what he hoped was a withering glance, but it fell on such cheerful confidence, it didn’t stand a chance.
“I dare say,” Blaze remarked to Hazard’s stiff back as he reached for his rifle, “when I get back to Boston, I’ll be able to oversee all the domestics with new efficiency.”
If this was her idea of efficiency, Hazard thought ruefully, Boston was in for a surprise.
“I think I’ll try muffins for lunch,” she continued with the same aggravating sunniness.
Dark eyes widened skeptically. “Have mercy, Molly. Send up Jimmy,” Hazard muttered, strapping on his holster.
“Pardon?”
He turned abruptly, inclined to bite her head off. Breakfast had been spare, lunch promised to be another experiment, and it was raining out. He was going to be wet all day, and the sight of her, hardly clothed in another of his oversized shirts, made him want to tumble her right where she stood. No preliminaries, no foreplay, no charming words. Only consummation. He’d never attempted the celibate life before, and he couldn’t recommend it. He’d already cursed himself for a fool for turning Rose down. Maybe tonight he’d
go back to town. It didn’t take so long to get there. And a few hours in bed with Rose would mitigate this unnerving desire he had for the unbearably cheerful female facing him across his cabin. Damn, she was inviting. The sight of her, all tumbled hair and long bare legs, allayed the annoyance. You couldn’t fault her for trying. So he said, instead, “Sounds good. Don’t burn yourself.” He knew the muffins would be burned.
“See you at noon, then.”
“Right.” He opened the door.
“My Lord, you’re going to get wet today.” It was said with the same boundless buoyancy.
He glared at her and left.
BLAZE tried, she really did, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember if it was two spoons of baking powder or two of salt or one of salt and three of sugar. And the eggs … she had absolutely no idea how many eggs Jimmy had put in. Or were there eggs at all in the recipe? Helping someone cook was not precisely like doing it yourself. Hell and damnation, she softly swore. If only she had a cookbook.
It struck her so suddenly, she had to sit down. Seated at the rough table, the unplaned floor boards cool beneath her bare feet, her hands clasped very still on the smooth sanded top, she realized with a fluttering exhilaration that she actually wanted to learn to cook for him.
She wanted to please him, wanted to give to him, wanted his approval. All novel concerns in a life previously revolving around taking. She had over the past days neatly compartmentalized her feelings toward Hazard. They were sensual, she’d told herself, carnal, lustful. The normal reaction of a female to Jon Hazard Black. Nothing unusual. Really quite expected. He had, after all, a well-deserved reputation for pleasing women.
But then, she’d also been exposed to the complex qualities of Hazard apart from his legendary prowess. He was a mercurial man, wholly unpredictable, but warm and spaciously kind, impudent in his humor, infinitely clever, and imbued with a fidelity and courage she hadn’t imagined possible in a single man.
And the need for a cookbook was the staggering instrument of her revelation—awesome in its unornamented simplicity. She cared about him, cared what he thought of her, cared that she couldn’t cook or clean or do whatever women did for the men they loved. It took her some length of time, sitting there in the silent, small cabin, to fully realize how her life had changed. Without plan or arrangement and so removed from artifice and stratagem, any self-respecting novice debutante would deplore the ineptitude. But it had happened.