The door opened, and Rachel bounced out chattering without restraint. With one quick glance he noted she wore an old calico frayed along the edges. The kind she usually wore gardening.
Crocker’s clothing was every bit as serviceable if not a bit more crisp. He closed the door, and they both came up short at seeing Johnnie.
‘‘Evening.’’ Johnnie bowed.
Rachel looked as if she’d been caught sneaking out her bedroom window. She hastily adjusted a checkered cloth covering the large basket slung over her elbow. But he could still see the outline of a whiskey bottle tenting the cloth.
‘‘Why, Johnnie,’’ she said. ‘‘I’m sorry, but we’re closed.’’
‘‘I know.’’ He formed a series of smoke rings, each traveling through the other. ‘‘Your brother’s otherwise occupied, so as your closest neighbor and trusted friend, he has asked me to chaperone.’’
‘‘He what?’’ Indignation poured from her like champagne at a hurdy-gurdy show.
Crocker immediately stepped forward. ‘‘Good evening, Parker. I appreciate your willingness to join us. I confess, I had worried a bit over Miss Van Buren’s reputation, so I am vastly relieved to have you along.’’
‘‘No trouble whatsoever. Glad to be of service. Shall we?’’ Johnnie offered his hand to Rachel, not even trying to hide his smile. What could she do? With Crocker’s endorsement, it would be nothing short of scandalous for her to rebuke him.
She eyed the horse, the carriage wheel, and his hand. ‘‘Could you hold the horse while I step up, please?’’
‘‘I have it,’’ Crocker answered.
As soon as the man’s back turned, she narrowed her eyes. ‘‘Don’t you have a saloon to run?’’ she hissed under her breath.
He said nothing, just kept his hand out, palm up.
She slammed the basket into it and grabbed a huge amount of skirt into her grip, treating him to a view of serviceable boots and a good portion of calf. Placing a death clasp on the handhold, she all but hurtled herself up and onto the landing in front of the seat.
The horse whinnied and sidestepped. Rachel squealed, plopped onto the seat, and frantically gathered her skirt around her.
Crocker used both hands and soft words to soothe the horse.
Frowning, Johnnie snuffed his cigar with his boot and climbed in beside her. ‘‘What’s the matter with you?’’
‘‘I hate carriages and I hate you,’’ she quipped under her breath.
She hated carriages? What was wrong with carriages? But Crocker mounted from the other side, sandwiching Rachel between them and keeping Johnnie from questioning her further.
He relaxed, stretching his arm along the seat back behind both her and Crocker, and allowed his legs to fall open, his left thigh bumping intimately against her right.
She grabbed the basket from his lap and in the process unobtrusively shoved his leg away from hers. He allowed it to fall back, this time exerting enough pressure to let her know he wasn’t going anywhere.
Crocker unwrapped the reins and gave the horse a quick slap. They lurched forward. With her hands full of basket, Rachel had no way to steady herself. Johnnie grabbed her shoulder and pulled her up against him until the horse settled into a steady trot.
She dug her elbow into his side.
He blew in her ear.
She whipped her head around to sear him with a look so full of antipathy it would’ve killed a lesser man.
He squeezed her shoulder, gave her a slow wink, and mouthed a kiss before releasing her. She immediately tried to scoot away from him. He casually placed one finger against her shoulder.
She glanced at him.
Keeping his attention on the road, he gave her a slight negative shake of his head, then removed his finger from her shoulder. She might be as rigid as a fence post, but it was his side she stayed plastered against. Not Crocker’s.
‘‘So, tell me about your trip over, Henry,’’ Johnnie said. And for the rest of the ride Johnnie plied the man with question after question, giving Rachel no chance to participate.
In the meanwhile, Johnnie used every opportunity to steady her when they hit a bump, lean into her when making a point with Crocker, caress her when her companion wasn’t looking.
She stiffened. She squirmed. She caught her breath.
At one point, Crocker interrupted his discourse. ‘‘Would you like to stop and rest for a bit, Miss Van Buren?’’
‘‘No.’’ She swallowed. ‘‘No, thank you. I’m fine.’’
Johnnie leaned slightly across her. ‘‘She’s not much for carriages,’’ he confided, grazing her neck with his thumb. ‘‘Are you, my dear?’’
His face was a mere inch from hers. She tightened her lips.
‘‘Oh, I had no idea,’’ Crocker said. ‘‘You must forgive me.’’
‘‘It’s quite all right,’’ she said. ‘‘We’re almost there.’’
And over the next rise, Johnnie’s very own property loomed. He frowned. Just what were they coming out here for? It was way too dark to show Crocker the trees.
When they pulled up, Crocker and Johnnie both vaulted to the ground. Rachel immediately shifted over toward Crocker’s side of the seat, so Johnnie grabbed the horse and watched her escort gallantly offer her a hand.
It was just as well. Had Johnnie been assisting her, he’d have hauled her down by the waist, and the temptation to pull her against him on her way to the ground would have been too much. His game would have been up for certain.
As Crocker kept up an entertaining dialogue, Johnnie found himself liking the man more and more. Had the circumstances been different, they might have been friends. But Crocker posed the first real threat yet.
All the other men coming through town were too rough, too reckless, or already married to women back home. Crocker was educated, a naturalist, and quite debonair.
He wasn’t coming to find gold but to record for posterity paintings of birds and wild animals. A life that would very much suit Miss Rachel Van Buren.
So why was he trying to sabotage her chances with such a perfect find?
Crocker retrieved a lantern from underneath the seat, then followed Rachel to whatever destination she had in mind. The full moon offered just enough light to see by.
Johnnie, content for now to watch and listen from here, scratched the horse’s chin. But if they ventured much further, he’d move in.
They stopped and set down their supplies.
‘‘Shall I light the lantern?’’ Crocker asked.
‘‘Not yet,’’ she whispered, their voices carrying across the meadow to Johnnie’s ears with no trouble.
Crocker uncorked the whiskey. Johnnie frowned. Rachel held a jar up to him, and when Crocker poured a small bit for her, Johnnie’s feet moved of their own volition.
But she didn’t drink any. Instead, she took a square of cloth and dropped it into the jar. He hesitated.
She relinquished the jar to Crocker, then pulled from her basket a petticoat? Johnnie surged forward.
No sooner had he reached them than she thrust the undergarment into Johnnie’s arms.
‘‘Here,’’ she said. ‘‘Hold this a minute, would you?’’
A strong fragrance of vanilla wrapped about him like a boa constrictor, having much the same effect. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t think.
Only feel. The supple fabric caressed his arms. The knowledge that this intimate garment once sheltered her long limbs played havoc with his body. His fingers rubbed the edges of the hem, snagging his calluses.
Crocker took no particular notice of the garment at all. How could he not notice? How could he stand there unaffected?
And why did that make Johnnie angry and relieved all at the same time?
Because I’m in love with her. And have been for some time.
He held himself perfectly still. Maybe it was just lust. Heaven knew the woman drove him mad with wanting. But he’d wanted women before. Yet he’d had no
desire to protect them, to share confidences with them, to grow old with them.
What made this one different? He scrutinized her. She was lovely, yes, but beauty faded over time. Why didn’t that matter to him? Perhaps it was because she was so alone. So needy.
But most every woman he’d met since his wife’s death had been alone in the world. So what was it? It couldn’t be her deep faith. That was a negative, not a positive.
The last thing he wanted was to be strapped to a God-fearing woman. They were nothing but hypocrites bound by rules that no human could possibly adhere to.
Yet that wasn’t true with Rachel. Not entirely. He saw how she hated the choices her sister had made, but still loved the girl. How she’d risked her own reputation to save her sister’s. How she’d built an alcohol-free establishment that would offer future families a respectable place to go. How she’d fought the desires she felt toward him simply because she wanted to do what was right.
Yet never once had she blamed him for the feelings he stirred in her. She placed all responsibility at her own doorstep. What a cad he was to push her and take advantage of her weakness.
Crocker said something and she laughed. Johnnie squeezed his fists, crinkling the petticoat. He wanted to wrap his hands around Crocker’s neck and rail at the man to leave her alone.
She belonged to him and nobody else. Nobody else. And for better or worse, that’s the way it was going to be from now on.
He thought about his saloon. She’d want him to give it up. Well, she’d just have to get over that. He wouldn’t ask her to give up her café . Why should he have to give up his place of business?
She’d want him to be a man of God. He took a deep breath. Going to Sunday services again wouldn’t kill him. He’d do that much for her. He’d seen the way other women used to pity the matrons back home when their men refused to attend church.
Well, he wouldn’t do that to Rachel. He’d go with her. Every single Sunday for the rest of his days. But he knew there was a world of difference between going to church and being a man of God.
A man of God, most likely, wouldn’t run a gaming hall. But what would happen to Soda if he shut things down? To Carmelita? She’d have to go back to prostitution for certain. And Soda had nowhere to go. What kind of Christian would he be to turn them out on the street? Why, none at all.
Rachel materialized before him, tugging on her petticoat. In his mind, it was done. He wanted to shake on it—so to speak. He bent toward her.
She dug her nails into his arms. ‘‘Johnnie!’’ she hissed.
He blinked.
‘‘Let go.’’
No. He’d never let her go. Never again. He shook his head.
She yanked on the petticoat. ‘‘Let go.’’
His mind cleared. Crocker. He couldn’t explain things to Rachel as long as Crocker was there.
Still, he didn’t release her underskirt. ‘‘I will not,’’ he whispered. ‘‘He’ll see it.’’
She looked at him as if he’d lost his senses. ‘‘See what? Whatever are you talking about?’’
‘‘Your intimate wear. As your chaperone, I cannot allow such a thing. What do you need it for?’’
‘‘To catch insects. What do you think I need it for?’’
Her answer so confounded him, he loosened his hold. She whipped the garment from him and strode back to Crocker.
‘‘Light the lantern,’’ she commanded.
Johnnie furrowed his brows. Crocker lit the lantern and placed the globe over the flame.
She started to hand the man her petticoat.
‘‘Stop right there,’’ Johnnie shouted.
The two jumped apart. Johnnie grabbed it from her.
‘‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’’ she said. ‘‘You hold it then.’’ She spread her arms out wide. ‘‘Like this.’’
He wadded it up. ‘‘I will not.’’
‘‘You are wasting our light. Now quit being such a ninny and hold it open. What on earth is the matter with you?’’
‘‘No man will lay his eyes on this garment.’’ He looked at Crocker. ‘‘I will not allow it.’’
Crocker still held the lantern, and Johnnie could see comprehension dawn. He knew. He knew exactly why Johnnie was objecting so strenuously.
A slow smile spread across Crocker’s face. ‘‘Would it help if I turned my back?’’ He didn’t wait for an answer but simply turned around.
Rachel wrenched the petticoat from Johnnie. ‘‘There. Now hold your hands out wide.’’
Never had he wanted to kiss a woman so bad in his life. He glanced at Crocker’s back but decided against it. He spread his arms wide.
Shaking out the garment, she turned it upside down and grasped its hem. She placed one end in his left hand. When she stretched to place the other end in his right, he closed both arms about her, petticoat and all.
She gasped. He gave her a quick, hard squeeze before releasing her.
She stood for a moment, thoroughly befuddled. ‘‘I need you to stand back-to-back with Mr. Crocker, please.’’
He complied, holding the petticoat wide.
‘‘Can you move the lantern to your right, Mr. Crocker, so your body doesn’t block the light?’’
He did so.
Bugs swarmed against the white undergarment. She looked around, locating the whiskey jar. The piece of fabric had completely absorbed the liquid, but Johnnie could smell the fumes from here. She began flicking insects from her petticoat into the jar.
‘‘I do believe, Miss Van Buren, you are getting those bugs drunk,’’ Johnnie said.
‘‘Insects,’’ she corrected.
He smiled. ‘‘Why do you want inebriated bugs?’’
‘‘Insects. Because they’ll be whole when they die and I won’t damage anything with a pin.’’
His arms began to ache, but he held steady. Finally she stood, then looked at him, wary. Curious.
He winked.
She backed up, hit the basket with her heel, and would have lost her balance and her bugs, but he lurched forward and yanked her against him.
He pressed the petticoat to her waist. ‘‘Gather your things. It’s time to go home.’’
————
Opening on Sundays had been a huge temptation. Especially since the men flocked to the saloons immediately after church.
Still, Rachel could not reconcile herself to working on the holy day. And this Sunday was no different. Pulling on her bonnet, she moved down the stairs and into the dining room.
She stopped short. Johnnie sat at one of her tables drinking coffee and reading the newspaper.
‘‘What are you doing here?’’ she asked.
He drained his cup, folded his paper, and stood. ‘‘I’m escorting you to church.’’
‘‘But I already have an escort.’’
He pulled on his jacket. ‘‘Don’t you want me to go to church?’’
She clasped her hands. ‘‘Well, of course I do.’’
‘‘All by myself?’’
She bit her lip. ‘‘No. It’s just, well, Mr. Crocker is to escort me to church this morning.’’
Johnnie’s shoulders relaxed. ‘‘Oh, is that all? Well, he won’t be able to. He sent his profound regrets. Sorry if I can’t remember the exact words he used.’’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘‘What happened between last night and this morning to change his mind?’’
Flipping his hands palm up, Johnnie lifted his shoulders in a shrug.
‘‘You said something to discourage him, didn’t you?’’
He glanced toward the kitchen. ‘‘Ah, Michael, there you are. Shall we, then?’’ He held out his arm.
‘‘What did you say to him?’’
Johnnie took hold of her hand and placed it in the crook of his elbow, holding it there while he all but dragged her to the door. ‘‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’’
Pulling at her hand, she freed herself. ‘‘I’ll not go to church with y
ou, Johnnie. He’ll think I prefer your company over his.’’
He gave her a look that could melt butter. ‘‘You do, love. You do.’’
Michael opened the door. Both men stared at her expectantly.
‘‘I’m not going with you, Johnnie. I mean it.’’
He studied her for a moment. ‘‘As you wish.’’
She waited until he crossed the Plaza and strode into the schoolhouse before allowing Michael to escort her over.
The men jumped to their feet upon her arrival. Michael walked her down the center aisle to three open seats beside Selma and Frank. Johnnie stood next to one of them.
He smiled and held a chair for her. She had no choice but to sit down or make a scene. Fortunately, Mr. Crocker was nowhere in sight.
The sermon was excellent. She hoped Johnnie was paying attention.
After the service, he secured her to his side and expressed his appreciation to the minister, inquiring about the man’s family. Supposedly, the preacher’s wife was due to arrive in a few months. Johnnie suggested the four of them get together for dinner as soon as that momentous occasion occurred.
It seemed to Rachel that Johnnie knew every man in the room, and he took great pains to speak to each one of them. With the proprietary way in which he introduced her, it looked—and felt—as if they were a couple.
But they weren’t. And she had no idea how to correct the impression. Well, she’d make sure it didn’t happen again. As soon as she got him alone, she’d give him a piece of her mind.
And not just about this morning. About last night. The very idea of him acting as chaperone was absurd and manipulative. What did he think he was doing?
Yet when they left the schoolhouse, he didn’t walk her to the café; he steered her toward the Parker House.
She tried to dig in her heels. ‘‘What are you doing?’’
‘‘I want to show you my new place. It opens tonight.’’
‘‘You’re opening on the Lord’s Day?’’
He said nothing, just continued steady on their course.
‘‘I can’t go in there,’’ she said.
‘‘Of course you can.’’
‘‘I can’t. It’s a saloon.’’
‘‘It’s my home.’’
‘‘What about your cabin behind the hotel?’’