With her long red hair plaited back into a braid and a bowler hat atop her head, she hoped no one would recognize that she was a woman dressed like a man, at least not at first glance. Never in her wildest imaginings had she ever thought of dressing as such. Disconcerting as it was, she had to admit the clothing was quite comfortable. The realization made her a bit envious of the simplicities of men’s wear.
The first bright yellow rays of the sun cut through a cloudless horizon, slicing their way through the dust of the street. Neither the rolling hills in the distance nor the short buildings lining the rough street rose high enough to challenge the light. Why on Earth the corporal had them out here on the far western edge of town she could not fathom. Last night when their train had pulled into the Omaha station she had been ready to collapse at the nearest hotel, of which there had been plenty.
Claws clicked out a rapid rhythm against wood, drawing her gaze down the porch to the right. The large gray and white pup of Fergusson’s trotted toward her, fluffy tail arched high over its back, bright pink tongue lolling out the side of its mouth. Lincoln, she had learned his name was on the train from New York to here. A fine name, despite her desire to disagree with everything the aggravating Fergusson said and did.
The pup’s happy, carefree expression made her smile and eased some of the anxiety twisting her stomach. She bent to pet his head, wincing as the Colt pistol Deirdre had given her bit into her side. Damnable thing. She would have left it in New York if Deirdre hadn’t made her swear upon her mum’s soul that she’d carry it. The fact that it only had a four-inch barrel and was a .31 caliber hardly made it ladylike in her eyes. She felt silly enough wearing men’s clothing, but wearing a pistol as well just seemed daft.
“Ouch,” she murmured as she adjusted the gun belt.
“That’s because you’re wearing it wrong,” came a deep voice from behind her, sliding over her like the finest silk sheets.
Ignoring how that voice tightened the skin of her breasts, she stepped swiftly away and spun around. Fear and surprise mingled unpleasantly in her chest. Not until she saw Fergusson’s wide eyes fall on her waist did she realize her hand had gone to rest on the weapon.
“Good instincts, though,” he said through a grin.
“Whatever do you mean?” she demanded. The breathless way her voice came out made her brow furrow all the deeper.
She didn’t like that her gaze traveled the tall length of Fergusson’s body, but she didn’t stop it either. In leather chaps that bulged nicely at the groin, a beige linen tunic, and his leather duster, he struck an imposing figure. More than that, he struck a handsome one despite his two-day-old shadow of a beard, wide-brimmed vaquero-style hat, and gun belt. Or perhaps it was because of all that.
His confident stride as he approached her was absent the jingle of the Western spurs she had expected. When her eyes finally made it down his solid form to his leather boots, she found they bore no spurs whatsoever. During her blatant perusal of his person he moved ever closer until he stood only inches from her. His leather, soap, black powder, and some kind of pleasant musky spice scent enveloped her so intimately she may as well have been in his arms. Heat flushed through far more than just her cheeks at the thought. Only her heaving breast moved as he reached for her waist.
Those big, strong fingers of his undid her belt and she found herself immobilized, like a fly in honey. Though the streets were empty this close to dawn, part of her worried over someone seeing them acting so familiar with one another. His linen shirt clung to the hard planes of his chest, drawing her eyes, which were only inches away. Thoughts of other people melted away. To her disappointment—which quickly transformed into relief—he only tightened it up and re-buckled her belt.
“It’ll be much more comfortable this way,” he said, voice deep like the rumbling of distant thunder.
It took several moments for her to focus on what exactly would be more comfortable with her belt cinched up. “The illustrations in the penny novels always show the cowboys wearing their belts low on their hips,” she said, happy she didn’t sound as breathless as she felt.
He made a sound halfway between a grunt and a laugh. “That’s why they call them Penny Dreadfuls. Trust me, this will feel better. Try bending now.”
The only way to bend was right into him or backward, which would press her breasts out toward him. Neither of which she was willing to do. She placed her hands on her hips and fixed him with a hard look. Inclining his head and sweeping his hand out in a dramatic gesture, he stepped back. Swallowing a tart answer she knew would only sound breathless, she did as instructed. It didn’t pinch.
“Thank you,” she said.
He nodded and walked past without so much as offering her his arm. The wonderfully masculine scents of him swirled about her, enticing her to follow. But she had been enticed by such things in the past and they had only brought her swiftly to heartache. Besides, this man had the manners of a street urchin and could barely stand the sight of her, which was evident in the way he marched so quickly toward the stables.
The pup reached up, licked her hand, then darted after Fergusson.
Lifting her head, she called over her shoulder. “I shall settle our bill.”
“No need,” he called back, boot heels never slowing.
She spun back in his direction. Despite the sound of protest she made, he didn’t even slow. The edges of his leather jacket flowed with each quick step, revealing a slit in the back that went to midthigh, giving the barest glimpse of his legs. Fearing he meant to skip out on their bill, she rushed to follow him. They rounded the side of the building before she caught up to him.
“Excuse me, Corporal Fergusson, whatever do you mean?” she demanded as she grabbed his arm.
The scathing look he gave her made her pull her hand back immediately. “Please, don’t call me that.” The pain in his voice leeched the heat out of his eyes, making her realize the words were not said in anger.
He began walking again, his long legs stretching out into an even faster pace. The pup dashed ahead, slipping into the open door of the barn.
“I did not know you held animosity toward your title. My apologies.”
Gaze never wavering from the wooden sidewalk before them, he shook his head. “’Tis not the title I hold animosity toward, but all that was required of it.”
She tried not to allow such words to harden her heart, but failed. Many soldiers were bitter that the war focused on ending slavery more than it did preserving the Union. Not that they wanted to keep slaves. But the popular belief was that if the president had focused on the latter, the South would have acquiesced more readily, resulting in a lot of lives saved.
“You fought to preserve the Union then, as my husband did, not to end slavery.”
At that, Fergusson halted so quickly that she jumped a good foot away from him, arm raising to block a blow. The anger melted from his face and his eyes turned soft. Part of her hated that softness, but only because it made her like him a little.
“O’ course not. The possibility of ending slavery was the only thing that kept me going through those long years.”
She couldn’t see his face as he stepped into the stables, but she had a feeling the pain lacing his voice would give away more than his stoic expression. Breathing deep of the comforting scent of horses and hay, she followed him inside.
“I misunderstood. My apologies.”
He turned to her, taking a step closer. His tall figure hovered over her, the shadows of the barn obscuring his face from her. While his body seemed relaxed, she still couldn’t help but be a bit fearful of his reaction. This time, however, she did not allow herself to flinch away.
“You apologize too much for things you needn’t.”
The scents of leather, soap, and spicy musk drifted over her again, twisting her tongue up