ROSAMUNDA’S REVENGE
By Alice Duncan
(Writing as Emma Craig)
ROSAMUNDA’S REVENGE
Copyright © 1997 by Alice Duncan
All rights reserved
Published in 1997 by Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Leisure “It’s A Dog’s Life”
Smashwords Edition September 2, 2009
Visit aliceduncan.net
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is an homage to Wilkie Collins, who wrote one of my favorite books of all time, The Moonstone. I know it doesn’t read much like it, but it is. Honest.
ROSAMUNDA’S REVENGE is for all of us who could probably survive without our furry friends but don’t think it would be worthwhile.
Chapter 1
Rosamunda took one look at the tall man striding across the lobby floor and knew him for a man who favored big dogs. Hunting dogs. Dogs with thick fur and lots of fleas. Dogs with bone heads. Dogs with little brains, big feet, no social graces, huge rumbling barks and bad breath.
So she bit him on the ankle. She would have kneecapped him, but she couldn’t reach.
Jedediah Hardcastle heard a strange, high-pitched snarl, the clatter of tiny claws against the wooden floor, felt something bump against his boot, and heard a rip come from the direction of his trouser cuff. When he looked down, it was to find a hairy rat attached to his left foot. Shoot, he already knew New Mexico Territory to be a wild place; until this minute, he didn’t know about the big rats.
“Hey!” He lifted his foot and shook it. “Hey! Son of a buck!” It was a heavy blasted rat, too; must have weighed five or six pounds. And tenacious? Jed began to wonder if he’d have to shoot it before it would leave go of his trousers.
“Stop! Stop that this instant, you vicious brute! What are you doing to my dog?”
Jed lifted his head when he heard the feminine exclamation, intending to let the officious female know exactly what he thought of hotels that allowed huge hairy rats to run loose in their lobbies. As soon as he saw her, he felt his words dry up and his mouth drop open.
A fairy princess in a fluff of sky-blue ruffles, she was floating down the staircase and headed straight at him. A vision in frills, its hair a mass of blond curls, its face an artist’s dream in painted porcelain, Jed knew it had to be something unearthly. He’d surely never seen a real, honest-to-God woman who looked like this creature did. If he had, he’d have been inclined to get engaged to her instead of the largish, uglyish Miss Amalie Crunch back home in Busted Flush, no matter what his parents wanted.
Although struggling to maintain his balance whilst keeping his foot in the air was a perilous proposition, Jed whipped his Stetson from his head. It was an automatic reaction to a woman entering any room in which he resided. He was polite that way.
After a second, he realized his foot still hung in the air with the rat dangling from it. The savage beast was making furious growling noises that might have sounded ominous had they been pitched an octave or three lower. Jed hardly noticed anymore, so busy was his brain in drinking in the sight of the vision in blue. Carefully, he replaced his foot on the floor without stomping on the rat. He’d always heard females disliked the sight of blood, and he certainly didn’t want to offend the fairy princess.
As soon as his boot hit the lobby floor, the rat backed up, Jed’s trouser cuff still clenched in its teeth, and commenced snarling ferociously as it tugged. Since his trousers were made of thick, heavy buckskin, the lightweight vandal didn’t stand a chance. Jed endeavored to ignore it.
He closed his mouth and gulped. The glorious apparition had finally made its way to him. He could see now that she wasn’t a fairy princess at all, but a woman. She was the most beautiful little thing Jed had ever seen in his life, but at the moment she looked mad enough to spit tacks.
“Rosamunda! Rosamunda!”
The incredible female knelt at Jed’s feet and put her arms out to grab the maddened rat. Jed thought about protesting. He almost lunged at her, afraid the beast was rabid and might forsake his trouser cuff and turn on her. The words she’d cried as she’d descended the staircase finally penetrated his shocked brain, however, and he blinked instead.
“That thing’s a dog?”
“Oh, my poor, poor baby. Oh, Rosamunda, darling! Did that awful man hurt you?”
Caught somewhere between utter astonishment and swelling indignation, Jed stammered, “Hurt it? Me? Awful?”
“Ooooh! You horrid big brute!”
She was looking at Jed when she said it. He swallowed hard.
The irate enchantress hugged the rat—that is, she hugged the dog to her breast in a manner Jed would have envied if he’d had his wits about him, and backed up. Her blue eyes crackled fire, and her flawless cheeks glowed pink.
“But—but—”
Part of what she’d said was true: Jed was big. But a brute? Hell, He was the politest man he knew. Of course, since he lived in the relatively uncivilized environs of Busted Flush, Texas, perhaps he wasn’t the best judge. Still and all, he tried. Miss Amalie Crunch seemed to find his manners pleasing.
“How dare you try to hurt my dog?
That was enough. Jed could take a lot of abuse from people. In fact, he made a point of it, since to do otherwise would have been unfair to them; but even he could only take so much.
“Now, wait a damned minute, ma’am. That thing attacked me.”
“Did you hear that, Rosamunda?” the beauty cried, speaking to the animal in her arms. “The beast is swearing at us! Well, I suppose we might have guessed.”
Jed lifted his hat in a beseeching gesture. “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but your—dog—attacked me.” He still couldn’t quite make himself believe that thing was a dog.
And a pretty good job she’d done, too, in Rosamunda’s considered opinion. Because she was still mad at Jed on an instinctive level, she bared her teeth at him.
He glared back, confirming him as a lout in Rosamunda’s estimation. Satisfied that she’d made her point, she subsided into Mistress’s arms and put on her best wounded air.
“That’s right, sweetheart. You just tell that bad man what you think of a huge, hulking ogre who tries to hurt sweet, precious doggies.”
Rosamunda, sensing victory, allowed herself to cease pouting. She smirked at Jed instead. His glare got hotter, but he didn’t reach for her. She considered it a rather large victory in her admittedly small life.
By this time Jed was fit to be tied. He also felt an almost ungovernable urge to make this magnificent female cease feeling ill will toward him. “Ma’am, I’m sorry if I hurt your—dog. But I was just walking through the lobby, going to the desk to ask about the job I’m here for, when that—dog—up and charged at me and grabbed my trouser cuff. I didn’t provoke the attack, either. Honest.”
He almost got lost in her big blue eyes. They were the blue of a summer sky. The blue of Luggett Lake on a clear spring day. The blue of bachelor’s buttons. Of Texas bluebonnets. Of— Jed’s imagination gave out and he merely stared down into them. It was a long way down as he was a very tall man, but it was worth it. Even if she did still seem mad, and possessed a voice shrill enough to crack glass, she was the most gorgeous female he’d ever seen in all his born days.
She had a sniff that could make a large man feel really stupid, too. She demonstrated it on him now, in fact.
Feeling more sheepish than he had since he’d mistakenly burst in on his cousin Willie and old man Huggenbaker’s wife back when he was fourteen, Jed said in the smallest voice he had in him, “I’m truly sorry, ma’am. Reckon I’ve never seen a dog like that before.”
She sniffed again, and Jed tried harder. “You see, ma’am, I’m from Texas. We’ve got us big dogs in Texas. We don’t have no dogs like that.”
Rosamunda didn’t care for the expression he gave her when he said it, so she growled at him again and had the pleasure of seeing his hands bunch up into fists. She’d already taken his measure, though, and knew good and well he wouldn’t use those fists on her. To do so would irritate Mistress, and he was trying to make an impression. Or correct the one he’d already made, rather. Humans. They were so predictable.
“Any dogs,” Mistress said.
“Beg pardon, ma’am?”
“Any dogs. You don’t have any dogs like this in Texas. Nor, obviously, do you have much grammar.” She sniffed yet again.
Rosamunda sneered and was pleased to see the monster’s neck turn red. It was a common reaction in human beings when they felt humiliated.
Jed didn’t have time to defend his improper use of the English language, because Mistress continued, “I’ll have you know this is very much a dog. She’s a Yorkshire terrier, and she’s a direct descendent of the great Huddersfield Ben himself. Her pedigree is impeccable.”
Rosamunda thought she heard him mutter, “I’d like to peck her.” She wasn’t sure, but she snarled anyway. Her snarl earned her a hug and a stroke from Mistress, which made it worthwhile.
The monster finally decided to give up. Clutching his hat in both hands, he said, “Well, ma’am, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your—your dog. Er—Rosie.”
“Rosamunda,” Mistress corrected.
Rosamunda snarled.
“Oh. Yeah, whatever you said. Now, if you’ll please excuse me.”
“With pleasure,” Mistress said grandly.
Jed felt like a chastised schoolboy when he finished his interrupted journey across the hotel lobby and finally made it to the registration desk. At least the desk clerk seemed to understand.
“Met the princess, did you?” he whispered sympathetically, casting a furtive glance around Jed’s large frame.
With a gusty sigh, Jed said, “Reckon I did.”
“Damned dog yaps at everybody. You’re the first one I seen it go after,” the clerk said.
“It bit my foot.” Jed still had trouble believing the stupid hairy rat had done such a thing. He couldn’t decide whether its outrageous behavior betokened phenomenal bravery or absolute insanity, although his inclination leaned towards the latter.
The desk clerk nodded in compassion.
“Well, I got other business to attend to besides fighting off pork-chop terriers,” Jed told him. “I’m here on a job.” He reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew a crumpled paper, and smoothed it out on the countertop. “Lady by the name of—” Jed stopped, drew in a big breath, and said precisely, “Tack-eye-ta Grant-ham.”
The desk clerk’s eyes widened. He murmured, “Whoo-ey.” Then he said, “I’m right sorry, mister.”
Jed said, “Sorry? Why—” and got no further because he heard, from directly behind him, a shrill, shrieky, “Who?”
He turned, startled, to discover that same magnificent example of feminine beauty he’d so recently encountered. The snot-nose terror was still in her arms, too, and it still smirked at him.
“Who are you looking for?” the vision asked.
She sounded horrified, and an uneasy feeling began to slink up Jed’s spine. He picked up the wrinkled paper, glanced at it, and tried again. “Tack-eye-ta Grant-ham.”
“Oh, good heavens! There must be some dreadful mistake.” The woman drew herself up to her full height, which must have been all of five feet and an inch or so, and said, “I am Tacita Grantham, sir.” She pronounced it Tass-i-ta Gran-tham.
“You?” Oh, shoot; he should have guessed.
“Yes. I. And I don’t believe we shall be doing business together.”
All in all, Jed supposed he wasn’t sorry to hear her say so. She might be pretty, but his first impression of her made him suspect her beauty, like that of most folks, went only skin deep. Still, he was troubled. He pushed his hat back on his head and stared down at the female holding the rat. “Well, ma’am, what do you aim to do instead?”
“I shall find another escort,” she said regally.
Now it was true that Jed Hardcastle had a great appreciation of feminine pulchritude. And it was also true that this creature was about the finest example of such he’d ever seen in his entire life. If circumstances were different, and in spite of his standing engagement to Miss Amalie Crunch, he’d delight in spending any number of months guiding Miss Grantham from the wild and woolly territory to the glories of San Francisco. A fellow could generally make a female shut up if he went about it the right way. Jed wasn’t a fool, after all.
In this case, however, he wasn’t so sure. As gorgeous as she was, he’d already discovered her to be a shrew. And that damned thing she called a dog would be a pain in the ass, too. Or at least in the trouser cuff. He wasn’t certain he’d enjoy spending several weeks in the company of a bitch and a bitch, no matter how pretty one of them was.
Jed’s first impulse was to tip his hat, utter a friendly thank you, and depart, thanking his guardian angel for a lucky escape. Two things prevented him from doing so.
Number one, he was pretty sure she wouldn’t be able to find a competent man to lead her from the Territory to San Francisco. Not in Powder Gulch, she wouldn’t. Of course, there wasn’t another man from Texas to the Arizona Territory as competent as Jed himself, but there were others who were fairly good and could work in a pinch.
Number two was indirectly tied in with number one. No matter how much he didn’t like her, his brain rebelled at the image it created of this vibrant, beautiful woman’s desiccated corpse lying on the desert floor with vultures perched on those blond curls and pecking at her eyeballs. He didn’t have the same compunction about the animal in her arms, but still . . . He removed his hat politely and held it in front of his lone-star belt buckle.
“Uh, ma’am?” he said, wondering how to advise her of his scruples without being crude.
“What?”
Her scowl rankled. So did her abruptness. As sharply as his drawl would allow, he said, “Ma’am, we may not hold with grammar or bog-hole terrors in Texas, but at least we have us some manners.” She stiffened up like one of his grandpa’s coon hounds on the scent, but Jed didn’t give her time to respond. “I was going to point out to you that it may not be easy for you to find another fellow to guard and guide you in Powder Gulch. This place ain’t—isn’t—a big metropolis, you know.”
He’d obviously struck a nerve when he mentioned manners. Her cheeks blossomed a bright cherry red, and Jed felt a mad impulse to grab her and kiss her silly. He’d never do such a thing. Not even if she asked. Not only was he too polite, but he was so big and she was so small, he’d probably squish her to death.
“Yes, I’ve already noticed that,” she said stiffly, apparently deciding to ignore his barb about her lack of manners.
“According to the letter your lawyer wrote, you’ve got to get to San Francisco by July.”
“Yes. Yes, that’s true.”
“Then, ma’am, I suggest we start over on a better footing and try again.”
# # #
Rosamunda didn’t care for his choice of words, objecting to the “footing” part, and showed him so by lunging at the big ugly thumb folded over the brim of his hat. She missed his flesh, but managed to sink her sharp little teeth into the brim of his Stetson. It was thick and dry and tasted icky, but she had a point to prove so she held on, growling.
“Hey!” he cried, pulling back on his hat. “Hey, Rosie, leave go my hat!”
“Rosamunda! Let go of that awful man’s hat!”
Tacita sounded peeved. Rosamunda, sure of her position in the universe, figured her irritation was directed at the monster who had dared call her by the ridiculous name Rosie. Nevertheless—and even though she didn’t appreciate being called a bog-hole terror any more than she appreciated being called Rosie—after giving her head one last vicious shake, she released the hat. She was pleased to see a perfect half-moon of tooth prints on the brim. A little more time and she’d have gnawed a chunk right out of it.
“Damn,” the oaf mumbled, eyeing the holes in his hat. He gave Rosamunda a good hot scowl. She sneered back. Rosie, indeed!
“Obviously,” Tacita said icily, “since Rosamunda has taken you in such dislike, a business association between us would not prosper. Thank you for your time, sir, but I shall spend the next few days searching for another guide.”
The brute looked annoyed. Rosamunda smiled.
“Look here, ma’am, I come—came—all the way from my home in Busted Flush, Texas, to Powder Gulch in the Territory to fetch you. That’s a long way to come and not get the business.”
Her lips pinched tight, Tacita said, “I shall pay you for your time, sir.”
Jed was very grumpy when he said, “Thank you, ma’am. I aim to stay here for another week or so. If you change your mind, you just look me up.”
Lifting her chin so high it almost came level with Jed’s shoulder, Tacita said, “I’m sure that won’t be necessary. Will you be staying in this hotel?”
“Powder Gulch doesn’t have another one,” he pointed out irritably.
Tacita’s chin rose another fraction of an inch. “Fine. I shall leave a bank draft with the desk clerk.”
She turned on her heel and bore Rosamunda away. Rosamunda wriggled in her arms until she could peer over Tacita’s elbow at Jed.
She heard him ask incredulously, “Did that damned rat stick its tongue out at me?”
The hotel clerk said, “Damn. I never seen no dog do that before.”
Rosamunda was pleased.
# # #
Her pleasure dimmed as the week progressed and Tacita seemed unable to locate another man willing to lead her from Powder Gulch, New Mexico Territory, to San Francisco, a reputedly civilized city in what these idiotic humans called the state of California.
Rosamunda was in a state herself, only she didn’t call it California. She called it downright annoyance. Time was, as she well knew, of the essence. She decided the dearth of qualified guides in Powder Gulch was typically irresponsible of humans who, she had discovered, were an irresponsible lot for the most part.
Every day, Tacita left the hotel and journeyed to the few places in town where she might make appropriate inquiries. Rosamunda trotted along with her on her beribboned leading string, and considered herself game to do it. After all, the dust in this hellhole was almost as thick as she was tall.
Every day around noontime they returned to the hotel for luncheon, since the hotel was the only place in town to secure a halfway decent meal. Tacita always brushed the dust out of Rosamunda’s prize-winning coat before they made their way to the dining room. Then, both Rosamunda and Tacita held their noses in the air when they passed the table where sat the dreadful Jedediah Hardcastle. In spite of their obvious animosity, he invariably smiled and tipped his hat. Rosamunda wanted to bite him. Tacita wouldn’t allow her to do such a sensible thing.
People. Rosamunda would never understand them. Nor could she understand why so many of them chose to live in this perfectly vile place. She longed for the rolling green of her native Yorkshire countryside, for the pleasures of family life in the litter, and the fun she used to have with her brothers and sisters.
Not, of course, that she didn’t worship the very ground Tacita Grantham trod upon. In fact, Rosamunda made it a point to squat and pee in Tacita’s tracks every now and then just to warn other dogs off.
There were other dogs in this town, too. Every now and again Rosamunda spotted one. They were all of the variety favored by Jedediah Hardcastle: ugly, sloppy, enormous beasts without a refined bone in their bodies. Rosamunda would have taught them a lesson or two, but Tacita wouldn’t allow that, either.
Every now and then, Rosamunda chafed at the restraints her beloved mistress placed upon her.
# # #
On the evening before Jedediah Hardcastle said he would be departing Powder Gulch, Tacita Grantham admitted defeat. She did so only to Rosamunda, and only when they were safely locked inside their miserable excuse for a hotel room.
As she brushed Rosamunda’s silky hair, Tacita said sorrowfully, “I hate to do it, darling, but I can’t think of an alternative.”
Rosamunda could. After all, what were dogs’ noses for if not to sniff out trails? Rosamunda was certain that, given a chance, she’d be able to sniff their way to San Francisco. She’d led her brothers and sisters all the way to the garden gate once back home. If she could do that, how could she miss a place as large as that silly city, San Francisco, was reputed to be?
Sighing miserably, Tacita said, “Oh, my, I wish there were another way. But it’s a thousand miles at least from here to there, darling, and much of it will be over rough, uncivilized territory. Why, we might even encounter Indians on our journey before we get to where we can catch the train.”
Rosamunda’s ears shot up. Indians! She’d heard about Indians. All she’d encountered on her journey to the garden gate was a hedgehog. Perhaps finding San Francisco might present more difficulties than she’d originally envisioned.
“And practically every person in town has told me that Mr. Hardcastle is the best guide in the business.” She was really crabby about it, too; Rosamunda could tell.
So was Rosamunda. Still, if there were such frightening objects to be encountered on this journey as Indians, well . . . She snuggled closer to her mistress, as much for her own comfort as Tacita’s.
“I shall speak to him at breakfast tomorrow morning.” Tacita picked Rosamunda up, loving the warmth of her silken coat and the glow in her pretty black eyes. She loved her dog to distraction. In fact, Rosamunda was the first living thing in the world Tacita could truly call her own. Tacita would not fail her now; not after she’d come this far.
The only other thing that truly belonged to her she wore on a chain around her neck: a beautiful jeweled charm her father had brought her from India. Tacita had all but worshipped her father. She’d known him far less well than she’d wanted to, and her heart ached now as she thought about him. Fingering her charm and feeling sad, she whispered, “Please don’t bite Mr. Hardcastle, darling.”
Rosamunda had to think about it for a moment. It went against the grain to make a promise that would certainly be difficult to keep. On the other paw, when she stared into the blue eyes of her mistress and read the real distress there, she decided she could make the sacrifice.
Tears welled in Tacita’s eyes when Rosamunda’s velvety pink tongue caressed her cheek.
# # #
There was no room in Tacita’s determined soul for tears the following morning. She had a duty to perform, and she would not be foiled. Tucking her dog under her arm, she marched into the dining room, full of purpose.
As usual, Jedediah Hardcastle was there, a plate piled high with food on the table in front of him. And, as usual, the obnoxious man grinned at her and tipped his hat. Tacita had never been anywhere in her life where gentlemen sat at meals with their hats on. This territory was a dreadful place.
“Mornin’, ma’am. Fair pretty day out.”
“Humph,” said Tacita before she could stop herself. Then, stiffening her resolve, she stuffed away her annoyance at that all-too-knowing expression on his face, and forced a smile. “May I join you, Mr. Hardcastle?”
He rose to his feet and pulled out a chair for her. “Please do, ma’am. It’d be right pleasant to have such a pretty face across from me whilst I eat my last meal here in Powder Gulch.”
Surprised by his polite manners, Tacita smoothed her skirt with one hand while holding Rosamunda in the other. Once she’d settled her bustled bottom in the chair—no easy task unless one were well-trained, which, of course, she was—she put the dog in her lap. Then she folded her hands demurely and placed them on the edge of the table.
“Care for something to eat, ma’am? It’d be my pleasure to buy you breakfast.”
Surprised again, Tacita demurred. Her stomach churned too violently to allow room for food. “Thank you very much, Mr. Hardcastle. I shan’t eat quite yet, however.”
He nodded. “If you expect to get to San Francisco in one piece, ma’am, you better get used to eatin’ when the opportunity presents itself. It won’t do it more’n once or twice a day.”
Annoyance surged like an erupting volcano within her. She just hated his arrogant attitude. Again recalling the gravity of her mission, she swallowed her retort. Small wonder she couldn’t eat, she thought sourly. She was too busy digesting all the angry words she wanted to hurl at Jedediah Hardcastle.
She cleared her throat. “Yes. Well, it is about that which I should like to speak with you this morning, Mr. Hardcastle, as a matter of fact.”
“Figured it was.” He spread jam on another fragment of biscuit and popped it into his mouth.
As he carved a piece of ham with his knife and daintily forked it into his mouth119
His words annoyed her, though. The conceited beast. Pinching her lips together, she took another breath and used it to say, “Yes. I suppose you did. However, as it happens, you were correct in your assessment of the abilities of the men in Powder Gulch.”
He nodded, chewing, and did not speak. She was glad for his forbearance.
“So, if you are still inclined to take the job, I should like to hire you to lead us to San Francisco.”
On the word “us,” Jed glanced at Rosamunda. She bared her teeth, but didn’t growl. He sighed.
“Your uncle’s letter said you have to get to San Francisco no later than the middle of July. Is that right, ma’am?”
“Yes. The timing is of the utmost importance.” The thought of Edgar Jevington Reeve, waiting for her in San Francisco, made Tacita sit up straighter. She had to get there in time; another opportunity for such a successful match might never arise again.
After all, Edgar’s reason for going to San Francisco wasn’t entirely for her sake, although he was, of course, as eager for the outcome as she. Still, he’d made it plain that he didn’t expect to remain there longer than it would take him to make arrangements for a grand tour of the Western Territories. And why anyone would want to tour them, Tacita had no idea. She did, however, decide that if she could only keep her goal in mind, perhaps she’d be able to tolerate the arduous journey with this barbarian.
“Out of curiosity, ma’am, why didn’t this fellow you’re going to meet come and fetch you himself? Seems to me that if a fellow aims to set up with a female, it’s his lookout to see she gets to where he is.”
Fury blazed within her so fast and so hot that Tacita forgot she was trying to be polite. “How dare you malign Edgar Jevington Reeve?” she shrilled, standing in a fluff of petticoats.
She also forgot Rosamunda was on her lap. The dog slid down the stiff bombazine fabric of Tacita’s gown and landed with a small clatter of clatter of claws on the floor
\Because Rosamunda knew it was all Jedediah Hardcastle’s fault that her mistress was upset, she immediately lunged for him. He was sitting down this morning, so she almost managed to scrabble her way up his long calf to his knee, nipping the whole way, before a hand as broad as a Yorkshireman’s brogue engulfed her. She clung for several seconds to his trousers, but knew it was no use. Glowering at him, she allowed herself to be lifted away from his trouser leg. She eyed the tiny rips in his denims with satisfaction as she dangled in the air.
Tacita snatched her out of the monster’s fist. “You beast! Stop abusing my beloved dog!”
Jed looked up at her with an expression of annoyance on his face. For the first time, Tacita realized his face was handsome. Well, she amended, perhaps not handsome. Not in the way Edgar was handsome. Edgar, after all, was a paragon of manly graces and virtues. And Edgar, unlike this brute, loved Rosamunda.
“Ma’am,” he said patiently. “I’m not a beast. I’m not abusing your dog. And I’m not mal—mal—whatever you said about that other fellow. I was just wondering, is all.”
Tacita stood before him, rigid with wrath, for another several seconds. Then the dismal realization that she had no choice niggled its way past her anger and made her stomach churn again. Although it almost choked her, she sat again, resettling Rosamunda on her lap and petting her to soothe her agitated spirits.
Jed directed his spoon at her. “I’ll tell you one thing, ma’am, and I don’t mean it cruel, but I think you’d best keep that animal off me. It don’t like me and I don’t like it, and I don’t aim to have it chew chunks out of any more of my hats nor bite holes in any more of my trousers. Not if you aim to hire me.”
Tacita gritted her teeth and didn’t answer.
Jed continued, “Now, I’ll guide you to San Francisco. And that Rosie of yours, too.”
“Rosamunda,” Tacita muttered under her breath.
“Whatever. It’s a long way and it’ll be hard going, and you ain’t—aren’t going to be wearing no fancy clothes and bustles. We’ll have to travel rough. Do you have some means of keeping that animal off the ground? I don’t aim to be held up waiting for a hairy rat to keep up with the horses and mules.”
Rosamunda yapped her fury sharply and concisely. Tacita couldn’t fault her. Hairy rat, indeed! She hugged Rosamunda to show her how much she loved her. “Of course I do.”
It felt to Tacita as if her words were little chunks of ice that fell from her frozen lips and slid across the table to land in Jedediah Hardcastle’s ears. He didn’t seem to notice any appreciable difference in their temperature, but only nodded.
“All right, then. Do you have your things packed?”
“All except the clothing I’ve been wearing in Powder Gulch.”
He eyed the current example of same with a jaundiced eye. A lovely creation, it consisted of basque and skirt of striped bombazine, decorated with a discreet edging of ecru lace at the throat and wrists. Its color was deep burgundy and Tacita was excessively fond of it. She didn’t appreciate Jed’s expression. What did he know about fashion? She refrained from asking.
“You got any plain calico frocks, ma’am? You’re going to be riding a horse or a mule all the way, you know. Except when you’re walkin’. If you don’t have good, sturdy walkin’ shoes, you’d best get yourself some. Split skirts is best, but I don’t expect you ride astride.”
Tacita felt as though he’d just slapped her. “I certainly do not!”
Jed sighed.
Rosamunda growled.
Chapter 2
Jed sat next to Tacita and eyed her costume with resignation. At least she wasn’t wearing a bustle today. Instead, she had on a brown, patterned calico frock with a froth of white ruffles around the neck and down the front. A matching parasol rested in her lap alongside the yank-slop terrier. Her shoes at least, he noticed with relief, were practical.
When he’d seen the enormous number of bags and boxes she intended to bring with them to San Francisco, he’d turned on his heel, gone back to the livery, and hired another mule. He didn’t expect half of her stuff to arrive in San Francisco with them. She’d dump it along the way when she realized how hard their journey would be, but he knew better than to argue with her at this point. Jed wasn’t one to waste his breath on losing causes.
Now they sat side by side at a table in the hotel restaurant, a large map spread out in front of them. Jed pointed to a tiny squiggly line. He sniffed every now and then, inhaling her soft, sweet perfume, and wondering why her personality couldn’t be as enchanting as her scent.
“That there’s the Rio Peñasco, Miss Grantham. We’ll follow it up into the Sacramentos. There’ll be water through the mountains there, but then we’ll have a long haul until we get to Alamogordo. The Mescalero reservation’s up there, but I expect we won’t have any problems with the Indians.”
He saw Tacita shiver and hug her rat and wasn’t surprised. Nor was he surprised when she asked sharply, “And just how do you know that, Mr. Hardcastle? How can you be sure?”
“I just know.”
Tacita knit her brows as she studied the map, then turned and frowned at him. Jed found himself not amazed and braced for another skirmish. A man of action, he just hated having to talk sense into people who thought they knew what they were talking about when all they knew is what they’d read in the eastern press and a bunch of silly dime novels.
“I’ve read that there’s a new Indian uprising going on right this minute, Mr. Hardcastle, and I’d just like to know how you can discount those reports.”
Miss Grantham tapped the table with an emphatic finger and looked smug. So did her rat. Jed sighed.
“Ma’am, if you’re talking about the Ghost Dance, it went on up in the Dakotas. Besides, it’s dead. So’re damned near all the Indians. When Sitting Bull got himself killed, it took the starch out of ‘em. And then when they had that fight at Wounded Knee, it destroyed the spirit of the movement. Not that it was much a fight, I reckon. Or much of a movement.” He felt a familiar twist in his guts and frowned. “More like a last gasp, if you ask me.”
Her big blue eyes opened wide. Bedazzled for a moment, Jed had to remind himself that this was the sharp-tongued screecher who’d as soon have her slop-bucket terrier chomp a hole in his gullet as not.
“You sound almost sorry about it, Mr. Hardcastle,” she said, clearly astonished.
Jed thought for a minute, organizing his thoughts. He’d never been a man to ramble or to talk without thinking first.
“Well, now,” he said at last, “I reckon I am. In a way.”
Her eyes opened even wider—a feat at which Jed marveled—and she sat up straight and pulled slightly away from him, as if to avoid contamination. He guessed he’d better explain himself, although he resented the need to do so.
“Ma’am, I was born in the territory here. I grew up in these parts and in southwest Texas. I’ve got no use for Indians. I’ve got no use for the Indian-lovers from back east who don’t know what it’s like out here, either. But I’ll tell you one thing for free.” He paused for breath. Miss Grantham seemed to be waiting for some gruesome revelation. “It weren’t—wasn’t—the Indians’ fault. They were just in the way.”
He shut his mouth, having said more than he usually did about any subject not directly related to his job. She seemed to be waiting. He turned his attention back to the map open before him and resumed plotting their course.
After a moment or two, she said, “I beg your pardon?”
Jed sighed again. Aw, hell. She wasn’t going to let up.
“Ma’am, those Indians who did the Ghost Dance were just trying to get their lives back. They didn’t have a chance against the settlers moving out west, nor against the army, and it was probably stupid of ‘em to try. They were already whipped. Beaten.” He drew his flat-handed palm across the table in a gesture he’d seen used by an old Indian fellow back home in Busted Flush. “Wiped out.”
He leaned back in his chair, frustrated. This whole topic made him feel crazy. His insides knotted up and his head ached and his teeth itched every time thoughts of the Indian problem so much as tiptoed through his head.
Tacita blinked at him as if he were speaking a foreign language, and the knots in his innards throbbed.
“I ain’t—I’m not saying the Indians were right, ma’am. Hell, I live here, and if any Indian told me I’d have to get out ‘cause they wanted my land, I’d fight. But that’s just it, don’t you see? They were just trying to keep their life the way it was. Reckon it was stupid of ‘em to try so hard, but I don’t expect I’d argue with a man who’d fight to keep his home.”
He hunched over his map again. She sat there petting her dog and didn’t speak for a minute. At last she said, “I never thought of it in exactly that way.”
“Didn’t think so,” he said dryly.
She cleared her throat. “So you don’t believe we’ll run into any trouble with Indians on our way?”
“Don’t expect any.” Slanting her a glance, he qualified his statement. “That’s not to say there might not be some renegades along the way. Or a white bandit or two, either, for that matter. The territory’s kind of a refuge for certain kinds of people from the States. We’ve got to go a long way over unsettled land, ma’am. I thought you knew that.” Hell, that’s why she’d hired him, wasn’t it? He decided not to ask, since he already knew the answer. Anyway, she’d probably only screech at him again.
“I—I did. Of course.”
He nodded. “All right. Then, after we get through the mountains, we’ll—”
“But look here, Mr. Hardcastle.”
Sighing yet again, Jed saw her dainty little finger point at the map. He anticipated what was coming but let her say it anyway.
“It looks like this would be a shorter route. Why do you want to climb up into those mountains when we can go this way, and it’s straight across to El Paso. That route looks much closer. Aren’t you taking us a good deal out of our way? Why do we have to go to Ala—Ala—Ala—”
“Alamogordo.”
“Yes. Why do we have to catch the train there? Why can’t we catch it in El Paso?”
“Water.” Jed didn’t elaborate because the one word said it all.
At least it did to him. He should have known better than to expect Miss Tacita Grantham to understand.
“I beg your pardon?”
He heaved another great sigh. “Water, ma’am. We have to follow the water. The southern way’s shorter, but there’s no water. Out here, water’s the most important consideration when you plan a trip. More important than food, even. As it is, after we leave the mountains, we’re going to have two or three days’ hard going before we hit Alamogordo. We’ll have to carry water with us.”
“Oh.”
“For us and the horses and mules. And your dog.”
She looked at him in silence for several seconds. He looked back and decided he had the better view.
“That—that sounds like a lot of water to carry, Mr. Hardcastle.”
“It is. And we won’t get to drink much if we expect it to last. It’ll be thirsty going during that leg of the trip.”
“Are you sure we can do it?”
Jed rolled his eyes. “Ma’am, I expect water will be our main problem, but we can do it. I wouldn’t have taken the job unless I knew we could do it. I don’t aim to die any more than I aim to let you die.” Because she was an irritating little baggage, he added, “Although you might want to keep an eye on your—dog—there. Don’t want no—any coyotes to snatch it up for supper.”
Tacita uttered a tiny shriek and hugged Rosamunda to her bosom.
Rosamunda tried to lunge at Jed again, but her mistress wouldn’t let her.
And so it went. Although a patient man by nature and one educated by his parents to be well-mannered, particularly to ladies, Jed wasn’t sorry when the ordeal finally ended. Lord, what a bull-headed woman. And every second they sat there, while he tried to keep from thinking about how he’d like to eat Miss Tacita Grantham for breakfast, that damned dog of hers looked like it were plotting just exactly how best to murder him.
She wasn’t. Although the thought held great appeal. Rosamunda was no fool, however, and she knew Tacita needed Jedediah Hardcastle if she expected to get to San Francisco. And so did she, if what he said about coyotes was the truth. She feared it was. The admission made her ears droop and her tail drag.
# # #
“Perhaps he’s not such a terribly brutish man, Rosamunda.”
Tacita sounded thoughtful as she pulled the brush through Rosamunda’s silky coat. Rosamunda lifted a brow and cocked her head, unsettled as much by Mistress’s tone as by her words, which were patently ridiculous. Of course, Jed Hardcastle was a brute. That went without saying.
“I don’t mean to say that there’s any excuse for his dreadful behavior towards you, darling, but at least he seems to have a heart.” She frowned, set Rosamunda down on the bed, and picked up a leather saddle bag. “Although whether his heart extends to darling doggies, I can’t say. He certainly seems to appreciate heathen Indians.”
Tacita sniffed indignantly, so Rosamunda relaxed. At least Mistress seemed to value the proper order of things, unlike some human beings Rosamunda could name. She watched with interest as Tacita propped the saddle bag against a pillow and stuffed it with folded fabric strips.
“Still, at least we’ll be traveling with a man who has earned a good reputation as a western guide. The people I spoke to in this town seem to respect him. I expect we shall be safe, even if the company lacks refinement.”
She picked up a piece of fluffy fur, and Rosamunda brightened. Hoping for a game, she grabbed an end of the fur and began to tug, growling and wagging her feathery tail.
“No, no, dear,” Tacita said, vexing her. “This is for our little sweetie pie’s carriage seat. You,” she said, gently prying the fur out of Rosamunda’s mouth, “shall ride with me in this saddle bag. I’m fixing it up for you now. Would you like to test it?” She stuffed the fur into the bag.
No, she would not like to test it. Since Tacita spoke no Yorkshire, an acute failing in so generally superior a human as she, Rosamunda was unsuccessful in getting her point across. Instead, she found herself being lifted in Tacita’s small hands and placed in the saddle bag. Immediately, she sank down into a soft dark fluff of rabbit fur and sneezed.
“Oh, dear,” she heard from outside her fuzzy prison. “I guess it needs more stuffing.”
Gently, Tacita lifted Rosamunda out again. Rosamunda shook out her coat and tried to do the same for her wounded dignity. She wasn’t altogether successful.
After a minute they tried again, and this time Rosamunda decided the saddle bag was comfortable enough, if one had to endure a journey of this nature with a brute who called her so unsophisticated a name as Rosie. Still and all, she knew it was Jedediah Hardcastle’s fault that she was being forced to ride in this contraption. When she tallied up the black marks already accumulated against him, the total was impressive.
This was going to be a long trip. As she curled up on the pillow next to Tacita’s head and prepared for her nightly beauty sleep, Rosamunda wasn’t looking forward to it.
# # #
They set out early the following morning, Tacita perched sidesaddle upon a placid white mare, Jed on a huge rawboned bay. She scorned his renewed suggestion that she ride astride, telling him in no uncertain terms that she was a lady, whatever kind of female he was accustomed to dealing with in this heathen territory, and ladies did not ride astride. He hadn’t argued, and Tacita silently savored her victory.
She was quite proud of the clever conveyance she’d rigged for Rosamunda. Her sweet darling looked as perky as the new day with her little head poking out of the saddle bag, her clever eyes taking in everything. Tacita had tied up her topknot with a pink bow this morning in honor of their new beginning. This entire trip was for her; Tacita’s heart fluttered a thrilling beat in her breast.
Last night, she had chatted with Rosamunda until the wee hours about the upcoming ordeal, and she was determined to be strong. Tacita could do this; she was sure of it. For the sake of Rosamunda and herself, she could do it. After all, once they got to Ala—Ala—wherever it was, they’d be able to travel the rest of their journey in the relative comfort of a railway sleeping compartment. Certainly nothing could happen to them on a train, could it?
Newspaper accounts she’d read about train wrecks and robber attacks began to snake their way into her brain. She frowned.
“Mr. Hardcastle?”
Jed grunted. Tacita took his grunt for an acknowledgment and an invitation to continue.
“Do you know how safe the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe trunk-line trains are? As a rule?”
He rode slightly in front of them, the reins of the two pack mules that were trailing along behind him tied somehow to his own horse. Tacita didn’t understand such things but trusted him. Her trust in him rather surprised her.
At her question, he turned his head slightly and eyed her from under the brim of his broad hat. She detected a certain degree of irritation in his glance, and took immediate exception.
“I don’t believe my question to be the least bit irrelevant, Mr. Hardcastle, so you needn’t look at me in that manner.”
He turned his head again, and appeared to be surveying the land stretching out in front of them. It seemed like such an unstudied gesture to Tacita, yet so utterly Western: The stalwart guide scanning the horizon for hostile savages. Or outlaws. Or coyotes. Or something. He was dressed to perfection for the part, too. His worn buckskins clung to his muscled limbs in a scandalous manner. One looped rope dangled from his saddle and another from his belt—why, Tacita had no idea, although she figured he must use those ropes for some rugged Western purpose. A rifle resided in a saddle scabbard, and a large hunting knife rested in a leather loop on his belt. In spite of her annoyance, some romantic part within her trilled a response.
After a moment—the man was frustratingly slow to respond sometimes—he said, “Just wondered why you were bothering to ask now, Miss Grantham. ‘Pears to me you should have thought about train safety before you started out on your trip.”
Instantly, all of Tacita’s fanciful images of Jed as a romantic figure went up in a poof of ire. If that wasn’t just like him! Tacita sorted through the indignant retorts swarming through her mind, searching for the most scathing.
Then she suddenly realized he was right. The wind vanished from her sails in a heartbeat, leaving them dragging in the dust of honesty. Her mouth snapped shut. Lifting her chin and settling it at a defiant angle, she declared, “It doesn’t matter. I should have undertaken this trip had it been ten times as dangerous.”
“Must be pretty important for you to get to San Francisco,” Jed observed.
“It is.”
“Mind if I ask why you’re going, ma’am?”
Tacita glared at his back and almost blurted out the truth. Recalling his aversion to her beloved Rosamunda, however, she decided he didn’t deserve it. Besides, if she told him the truth, he might just turn around and head back to Powder Gulch. She wouldn’t put it past him, especially since they hadn’t gone very far yet. She knew good and well he wouldn’t understand the imperative that drove Tacita and Rosamunda to San Francisco.
Because she had an aversion to outright lying, she said truthfully, “We are going to San Francisco in order to consummate an alliance.”
His head jerked around again and for a brief instant, Tacita’s insides clenched and she feared she’d been right: He was going to terminate the journey right now. She was, therefore, relieved when he said merely, “Huh?”
“I said, we’re going to San Francisco in order to consummate an alliance.” She sniffed. “That means, we’re going to . . . undertake an allegiance.”
She frowned, peeved at having to skirt the issue this way. She was even more annoyed when he said “Huh?” again.
Feeling harried, she snapped, “We’re going to tie the knot.”
Drat! She hated fibbing. But actually, she told herself as she tried to spread balm on the scratch her prevarication had just inflicted to her conscience, her declaration wasn’t too far from the truth.
“Oh. You gonna marry that Jeeves fellow?”
Oh, dear, what could she answer to that? Her head down, she mumbled, “Reeve. Edgar Jevington Reeve.” Then she said, “Something like that.”
“Something like that? You mean you don’t know?”
She lifted head again, infuriated by his inquisition. Thinking fast, she said, “We’re going to see if—if there is compatibility first.”
That was relatively true. And in truth, she did harbor a faint tendre for Edgar. There were, after all, very few people in the world who shared her aspirations. Although she’d only met Edgar twice, she considered him an excessively handsome man and imminently suitable prospect for husbandhood. Actually, she’d been having daydreams for some months now about marrying him and setting up a breeding kennel for Yorkies. The thought made her insides glow. Of course, she’d have to wait for him to get through with his silly western territories tour. She’d been waiting for people all her life, though; another little wait wouldn’t hurt her.
“You don’t know?”
Deciding that in this instance, honesty could serve her purpose as well as subterfuge, she said, “He lives in England, Mr. Hardcastle. We haven’t been privileged to spend much time in each other’s company.”
“Oh. That kinda makes sense.”
Thank God!
He continued, beginning to supply his own fictions to Tacita’s story, “Reckon that’s why he didn’t come out here to get you, too, if he had to come over from England.”
“Exactly.” Almost. Still, he was coming from England to San Francisco in order to meet with Tacita there, so Tacita didn’t feel too bad about agreeing with Jed in this instance.
“I still can’t figure out how you ended up in Powder Gulch, though. It’s kind of out of the way, isn’t it?”
Tacita had no need for fibs now since the truth would serve quite well. “Indeed it is. It’s the end of the world, in fact. But my uncle couldn’t take us any farther. He brought us from Galveston to Powder Gulch, but after concluding his business in Powder Gulch, he had to head back to San Antonio. There was some urgency to his business.”
“Your uncle? Would that be Mr. Williamson? The fellow whose attorney wrote to me?”
“Yes. Mr. Luther Adams Williamson.” Tacita sighed. “He and my father were in business together, importing arts and crafts from the Orient.”
“Your father, ma’am?”
Tacita fought the rush of sadness thinking about her parents always brought on. “Yes. My father passed away a year ago. He and my mother, both, in a shipping accident. It was a dreadful tragedy to me. Mr. Williamson is my last living relative.”
Jed peered at her and lifted a brow. Considering his generally laconic demeanor, he looked almost sympathetic. “That so? Sorry to hear it.”
Although she could hardly believe it, she was sincere when she said, “Thank you, Mr. Hardcastle.”
“Wonder why he didn’t take you to El Paso, though.”
Tacita had wondered about that, too, although she’d felt guilty about wondering, since she fully understood how little her own desires and imperatives mattered to anyone else in the world. Hearing a veiled criticism in Jed’s question, however, she forgot about her own doubts and bridled. “My uncle is a very busy man with an important business to run, Mr. Hardcastle. It’s been especially difficult for him since my father’s untimely death. His business took him to Powder Gulch. Therefore, he took me to Powder Gulch, and I’m very grateful to him, too.” She punctuated her declaration with a brisk nod.
“He was selling imports from the Orient in Powder Gulch?”
The incredulous question fired Tacita’s already-shaky temper. “Yes! Yes, as a matter of fact, his business takes him everywhere in the United States. And the territories.” So there, she thought, then wondered why she was allowing this irritating man to make her behave in such a childish manner.
Jed merely grunted. After a few minutes, he scowled and added, “Too bad he couldn’t have waited with you, though. Don’t hold with leaving ladies alone to fend for themselves myself.”
Tilting her head at an angle calculated to depress the pretensions of any lurking lower orders—and Jedediah Hardcastle, as well—Tacita said frostily, “I can assure you, Mr. Hardcastle, that women are quite well able to take care of themselves. Some progressive states and territories have even seen the light and given women the vote.”
Jed grunted again. He followed up this grunt with, “You a suffragist, ma’am?” He asked the question as if a positive answer would neither please nor amaze him.
“I believe women are fully capable of deciding their own destinies.” Just as she was doing now, in fact.
He nodded and didn’t answer. Tacita took his silence for censure and her anger bloomed anew. “Well?” she asked in a challenging tone. “What do you have to say to that, Mr. Hardcastle? Have I succeeded in shocking you?”
Squinting over his shoulder, Jed said merely, “No,” which fired her ire further.
Sensing that she’d not best him in a battle of words since he used so few of them, Tacita decided to save her breath and merely glared at his broad back.
After a minute or two, she realized it was an extremely broad back. Indeed, it was about the broadest back Tacita had ever studied. Not, of course, that she was in the habit of studying gentlemen’s backs. Or any other masculine physical attributes, for that matter. One couldn’t help but notice some things, however, and at the moment she was noticing how very broad Jedediah Hardcastle’s back was.
Swallowing, she noticed how huge his legs were, as well. Mercy sakes. The largeness of his thighs betokened either muscle or fat. As she’d espied no fat on him thus far during their brief acquaintance, she decided their size must be due to muscle. An involuntary thrill sparkled up her spine.
Not, of course, that she fancied large, muscular men, particularly since in this case, his muscles seemed to extend to his brain. Still and all . . . Tacita discovered her mouth had gone dry.
She was glad to be traveling in company with a man who could obviously afford such great protection for herself and her darling Rosamunda.
Yes. That’s the only reason she was pleased with those muscles of Jed Hardcastle’s. Protection. She was sure of it.
Tacita tore her gaze from Jed’s manly form and frowned down at her hands, which were folded over her sidesaddle’s leaping tree. What was she thinking of, to be admiring him in this shocking manner? Why, the gentleman to whom she was heading was infinitely more—well—gentlemanly than this man.
Brow furrowed, she tried to drum up Edgar Jevington Reeve’s image. After several moments of hard thought, she managed. Yes indeed, she thought with a slight smile. Now there was a true gentleman. And a gallant, handsome one, as well.
All at once her mind’s eye pictured Edgar side by side with Jed Hardcastle and poor Edgar seemed to shrink. His shoulders, already narrow, began to stoop. His form, which until now she’d considered interestingly slender, looked skinny. His pallor, which she’d deemed aristocratic, took on a pasty quality.
“Oh, drat it all!” she spat, annoyed into speaking aloud.
Rosamunda, startled, yipped.
Jed turned in his saddle. “Something wrong with you or Rosie, ma’am?”
“Rosamunda,” Tacita corrected automatically. Her smile felt forced. “No. Thank you, Mr. Hardcastle. Nothing’s wrong. I was just—thinking about things.”
One of Jed’s eyebrows rose over a brown eye that looked not merely beautiful to Tacita—outlined as it was in lush black lashes—but also terribly ironic. She pressed her lips together and didn’t say another word.
Rosamunda growled low in her throat and glowered at Jed.
# # #
As far as Jed was concerned Tacita Grantham’s uncle, Mr. Luther Adams Williamson—and why the hell did every fellow she know have two last names?—was no better than a fool. Jed didn’t care how blasted sure Tacita was that she could take care of herself. She wasn’t used to the west, and that uncle of hers had no business leaving her alone in it. All of Jed’s protective instincts—honed to razor-sharpness by his parents and his circumstances—rose in protest against such idiotic behavior.
It wasn’t right and it wasn’t smart. Anything could have happened to her, and she had nothing with which to protect her but that stupid hairy rat of hers.
Not that Jed had any qualms about women’s rights. The females he’d known in his day were every bit as smart as the men. Smarter, most of ‘em. Brains couldn’t combat brawn, though, and Jed knew it even if Tacita would never let herself admit it. And, while Jed’s betrothed, Miss Amalie Crunch, might possess brawn enough to battle any number of men, Miss Tacita Grantham certainly didn’t. She was tiny and petite, looked about as durable as a little glass angel, and—well, Jed decided he’d do better not to dwell on her physical attributes.