He waited. The horse settled a leg on the dark earth and a high, thin cry came from the bushes.
“What the devil…”
A small girl popped up, a little sprite of a thing, with two red-gold braids and a grimy white pinafore. “I am not a jackrabbit,” she announced. “I am an anteater.” She stuck out a tiny hand and unfolded it to reveal a smear of squashy-looking black stuff on her palm.
“You eat ants?” Wash asked.
The small hand closed up tight. “They taste like peppermint. I eat grasshoppers, too, but they wriggle. Do you like ants?”
He studied her. Bits of dry grass were stuck in her hair, and her sunburned nose tilted up as she gazed at him. “You gonna shoot me?”
“No, I never shoot little girls. Only jackrabbits.” He started to stuff the Colt back in his holster when a blur of blue hurtled over the fence and plunged through the lavender patch. The spicy scent wafted on the still afternoon air.
The woman planted herself in front of General, breathing hard, and the horse shied.
“Don’t touch her!” she screamed. She grabbed the child and shoved her behind her skirts.
“He wasn’t gonna touch me, Maman,” came the high voice from behind the blue skirt. “He was gonna shoot me.”
The woman’s face went dead white.
“Oh, no, ma’am, I wasn’t going to—”
“He was, too, Maman. He was going to shoot me and eat me for supper!”
“Mon dieu!”
“I was not,” Wash protested. “See, I thought she was a jackrab—”
“Do not bother to explain, monsieur. Just turn your horse around and go.”
“Now, wait a minute. Let me ex—”
“Go!” She made shooing motions with the blue apron, her cheeks blazing crimson and her eyes…
Her eyes snapped. Magnificent eyes. Like two shards of teal stone flecked with gray. Eyes that made his heart stutter.
He studied the rest of her as she stood panting before him. Slim. Small waist. Couldn’t tell about her hips under all those petticoats, but her breasts, rising and falling as she struggled for breath, looked lush and rounded. His mouth went dry. It had been a long, long time since he’d admired a woman’s breasts.
He wrenched his gaze from her bosom. Her face had a smattering of freckles over a sun-browned nose and a soft-looking mouth the color of ripe raspberries. A wide-brimmed straw hat hung down her back, the blue ribbon ties knotted about her throat.
Wash cleared his throat. “You Miz Nicolet?”
“That is none of your business,” she snapped. “Leave my land this instant!”
“Ma’am? Just listen a min—”
“And do not come back!”
Wash figured if he stayed until sundown, he’d never get to complete a sentence. “Well, now, I can’t exactly promise—”
The woman spun, scooped her daughter into her arms and tramped away toward the house, taking long strides that kicked up her petticoats to reveal mud-caked black leather work boots. Over her retreating shoulder the little girl grinned at him and waved an ant-stained hand. “Goodbye, monsieur! I hope you find something to eat.”
Something to eat sounded like the balm his shaken confidence needed. Better yet, something to drink. He guessed Rooney would still be dealing cards at the Golden Partridge; maybe he could rustle up a steak and some beans before they figured out his partner was cheating.
“Come on, General.” He headed the gelding down the narrow wagon trail toward town. “Wouldn’t be the first time a woman hasn’t liked what she saw of me right off,” he muttered to his horse. “But sure as hell’s the first time a woman’s ever plain run me off. Not good for a man’s spirit.”
Chapter Two
From the double swinging door of the Golden Partridge saloon, Wash took in the cobwebby walls, then the expanse of tobacco-sticky plank floor. Cowpunchers crowded three-deep around the poker table, but the barroom was so smoky he didn’t see Rooney right off. When he did spot him, Wash wished he hadn’t.
Hell’s holy hobnails, Rooney was gambling again. The place reeked of whiskey and sweat, and underneath the sour smell lay a tension so thick it clogged his lungs.
His gray-haired sidekick was absorbed in a game of blackjack with five other men. Three were obviously ranch hands—hair slicked down, fresh-shaved, clean shirts and polished boots. The other two were older men with paunches and gray in their beards. Ranch owners, maybe. After all, it was Saturday night. He hoped they were all drunk enough that they wouldn’t watch Rooney too closely.
Too late. A fresh-faced kid leaped to his feet, revolver drawn. “You’re cheatin’, mister! That card came from your sleeve.”
Wash saw the kid’s trigger finger tighten. He put a bullet through the kid’s hat and the other men at the table swiftly rose, hands in the air, knocking chairs over backward.
“Pay up, Rooney,” he ordered in a quiet voice. “Now. Before you get yourself killed.”
“Hey!” the barkeep yelled. “Thought you was a lawyer-man.”
“That’s right,” Wash replied evenly. “But even lawyers can shoot straight.” He holstered his Colt. “Come on, Rooney, you’re holding up my supper.”
With a scowl, Rooney began to divvy up his pot.
Wash had to laugh. After the war, when he’d soldiered at Fort Kearney, he’d picked up Rooney Cloudman as his part-Indian army scout. It was Rooney who had helped him give up serious drinking. He was a good man except that he’d never been able to walk past a poker table with a card game going.
Every man had his weakness, Wash supposed; when he was younger he’d had the same hunger for whiskey and taking chances, for “riding close to the cliff” his father had said.
He no longer had the carefree heart he’d had at twenty-one; it had taken him three years of prison in Richmond and another year chasing the Sioux before he’d realized he was as close to self-destruction as a man could get. Even now, some days, he felt like a walking corpse. He didn’t seek human interaction beyond keeping his poker-playing partner out of trouble, didn’t want to dance with any of the ladies at the hoedown every other Saturday. And he didn’t want to feel anything except pleasure over his breakfast coffee and bacon.
Dried up as a sun-parched cornstalk, Rooney said.
Rooney was right. The heart he carried around in his chest was dead. Pretty, blue-eyed Laura Gannon had been his first love, the kind that hurt the most. She’d also been his last. He’d never loved anyone like he’d loved Laura, but she’d jilted him the night before he’d left for the War. For damn sure he’d never risk wanting a woman again.
With shaking fingers, Jeanne Nicolet crammed a cartridge into the rifle and propped it with a satisfying thunk on the wooden gun rests over the front door of her tiny cabin.
“Are you going to shoot someone, Maman?” Manette craned her neck to inspect the rifle.
“Non, ma petite. Not unless I have to,” Jeanne said between clenched teeth. Not unless another strange man trespassed in her lavender fields. No one from town ever rode out to pay a call, friendly or otherwise, not since she’d shot the sheriff’s hat off when he’d questioned her right to the land. She had darted