Читать книгу Gabriel's Lady - Ana Seymour - Страница 9

Amelia Jenks Prescott sat up straight in her seat and gave a deliberately loud sigh. If the disreputable-looking fellow sitting across from her had any trace of the gentleman, he would wake up and move his long legs aside to give her cramped body a bit of room.

It seemed weeks since she had left the relative comfort of the train back in eastern Dakota Territory to climb into the tiny confines of a traveling coach. At first it had been just Morgan and herself, which had been tolerable, but in Rapid City a man and a woman had joined them. The woman had introduced herself rather vaguely as a Mrs. Smith. The man had not said so much as a hello. Then both had gone to sleep, a feat Amelia had found utterly impossible during the long, jarring ride.

She moved one foot to the other side of the man’s boot and tried to stretch out her legs. At least they would arrive in Deadwood that night. She could find Parker, rest up a couple of days and, with any luck at all, be back in New York within a fortnight.

She nudged the man’s leg with her knee. Through the thin muslin of her dress the muscles of his thigh felt rock hard. To her surprise, her cheeks grew warm. She wasn’t accustomed to blushes. But then, neither was she accustomed to having her legs entwined with those of a strange man—a very masculine-looking man. And handsome. With carelessly curly, long blond hair, sideburns and an unruly mustache. Blue eyes. She’d seen just a glimpse of them before he dozed off, his head cocked to one side on the horsehair seat. Amelia had had plenty of time to study him and to come to the conclusion that he was a lout. Though his clothes were of good quality, they were disheveled. His white shirt was open at the neck with no sign of a tie. It had been a good three days since his face had seen the edge of a blade.

Her nudge had produced no effect. She cleared the dust from her dry throat and said, “Sir, might I request you to sit up in the seat?”

The blue eyes opened. “I beg your pardon?” the man asked sleepily.

Amelia pointed to their nearly joined legs. “I don’t believe these coaches were designed to provide their passengers with beds,” she said frostily. “I need a bit more room.”

Gabe Hatch ran a hand across his whiskery chin. Slowly he pushed himself backward against the straight seat. The hours of sleep had not gotten rid of the hammers pounding inside his head. He had an acid taste at the back of his throat. When had he eaten last? Certainly not since he’d started in on the Mad Mule Saloon’s finest rotgut.

When he had climbed into the coach that morning his head had been clear enough to take notice of his traveling companions, especially the slender beauty seated across from him. From the fancy cut of her blue taffeta dress, her fashionable feathered bonnet and the haughty way her pretty nose had turned up when he and Mattie had climbed on board, he’d decided that she was probably a Southern belle. But now, taking a better look, Gabe reckoned he’d have to reconsider. A Southern belle would endure excruciating pain before she would press her legs against his as if they were at the Saturday-night wrestling competition at Chauncey’s. And no Southern belle would stab him with such a direct gaze. The stabbing eyes were brown, he noted idly—dark, velvety brown.

“I didn’t mean to wake you, but I’ve been quite cramped most of the day, Mr., er…?”

Gabe shifted once more to allow the woman more space. There was a wave of pain behind his eyes and he felt sick to his stomach. “Gabriel Hatch, ma’am—or should I say miss?”

Amelia moved her knees to take advantage of the additional room and answered in a less hostile tone. “Miss Amelia Jenks Prescott.”

His eyes widened in surprise. For a moment he looked as if he were going to say something, but finally he simply nodded his head and murmured, “How d’ye do.” Then he smiled at her.

Amelia felt the breath catch at the back of her throat. Mr. Gabriel Hatch was not at all the kind of gentleman she was used to associating with, but she imagined that even back in the finest parlors in New York City that smile would cause a stir. Cynthia Wellington, for one, would have set her cap for him in the blink of an eye.

She gave a tentative answering smile. “I’m sorry I had to awaken you,” she said again.

Gabe leaned forward until his face was just inches from hers and said softly, “You can awaken me any time you like, Miss Prescott.”

The words carried a suggestive undertone that left Amelia speechless. And it wasn’t only the words that shocked. When Gabriel Hatch moved close, she could smell the distinct odor of liquor. Dear Lord, the man was a drunk! The hands that had been folded demurely in her lap tightened. She leaned back as far as she could and closed her eyes. This was exactly the type of character she had anticipated meeting when she had started out on this onerous journey. She would simply ignore the comment…and the man himself.

“Are you feeling all right, Missy?” Morgan’s resonant voice had an edge of concern.

Amelia debated the wisdom of opening her eyes. She did not want any further exchanges with the inebriate Mr. Hatch. “I’m fine, Morgan,” she said finally, opening her eyes but keeping her head turned toward the side to look directly at the big man who had been her family’s retainer for as long as she could remember.

She reached out to give his hand a squeeze. “I think we must be almost there, don’t you?”

Morgan shook his head doubtfully. “It doesn’t seem to me that this trip’s ever going to end.”

She gave him a look of sympathy. Morgan didn’t like to travel. He always said that his six-week passage across the Atlantic in the hold of an immigrant steamer had been all the traveling one man needed for a lifetime. It was only his loyalty to Caroline Prescott that had made him agree to accompany Amelia halfway across the country into the savage West. On a temperance crusade back in ‘58 Amelia’s mother had plucked Morgan from the gutters of New York City and had convinced him to start a new life as a sober man. He’d been employed by the Prescotts ever since.

“The driver said we’d be pulling in by suppertime,” Amelia reassured him.

The talking had now awakened their other traveling companion. Morgan’s long legs allowed her little more room than Gabriel Hatch’s slouching posture had allowed Amelia, but the gray-haired woman was so small that the two appeared to fit comfortably. “I wouldn’t put too much faith in anything Charlie tells you, my dear,” she said, sitting up and adjusting her tucked silk bonnet. “Back in Tennessee we would say that Charlie’s one of those fellows who’s mostly all vine and no taters.”

Amelia laughed, even though the woman’s words were not reassuring. “Are you just arriving from Tennessee?” she asked.

The woman shook her head. “Lordy, no. I haven’t been back home in years. I live in Deadwood now…before that Colorado and before that Californy. I’m Mattie Smith.” She gave a little nod. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Amelia felt herself relaxing. It was comforting to meet another woman in this godforsaken territory. Perhaps she and Mattie Smith could be friends during her short stay in the Black Hills. “The pleasure is mutual, Mrs. Smith. I’m Amelia Jenks Prescott. Is your husband a miner?”

Gabriel Hatch gave a half cough, which drew a sharp look from the woman sitting beside him. “Watch yourself, Gabe,” she said crisply. “If you can’t see that Miss Prescott here’s a lady, then you ain’t got the brains God gave a squirrel. Besides, I did have a husband once—Ezekiel Smith, God rest him. He said he was going to make a Christian out of me, but never got very far. The apoplexy took him one day when he had just started in on the Corinthians.”

Amelia’s eyes went to Gabe, who shrugged. “I didn’t say a word.”

“Mind that you don’t,” Mattie Smith said. She turned back to Amelia. “Don’t let him bother you none, Miss Prescott. Gabe’s usually not a bad sort, but today he’s got a head on him, as you can see.”

Gabe glowered. “Which is why I should be back sleeping peacefully in my hotel room, where I would be, Mattie, if you hadn’t insisted on hauling me out of there…”

Amelia blinked in confusion. Mrs. Smith gave every appearance of being a proper, decent woman. She rather reminded Amelia of her aunt Sophie, the one who brought her sweetmeats every Christmas. But the description of her marriage was certainly odd. And for the life of her, Amelia couldn’t determine what could be the relationship between Mrs. Smith and the dissolute Mr. Hatch.

“Go back to sleep, Gabe, and let me talk with Miss Prescott in peace,” Mrs. Smith interrupted him good-naturedly.

It looked as if Gabe was about to protest when the coach suddenly gave a lurch to the right, then bolted forward, throwing Amelia into his lap. His hands closed firmly around her arms and kept her from being thrown against the side of the coach. The cab gave four bounces, each slower than the last, and finally came to a stop, tilted crazily toward front right.

Amelia looked up at Gabe Hatch. His expression was one of annoyance, not alarm. His hands loosened their grip on her arms and slipped behind her back to pull her more securely on to his leg. Her left breast was pressed tightly up against his paisley silk vest. The smell of whiskey was overpowering.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She twisted her body, her rear end sliding intimately along the smooth serge of his trousers. Finally with a shove against his chest, she pushed herself back to her own seat. “Let go of me!” she said belatedly.

Gabe held up his empty hands and gave her an amused smile.

“Is it a broken wheel?” Mrs. Smith asked without concern.

Gabe leaned his head out the tiny coach window. “Looks like we’ve gone off the road into a coulee.” He pushed the coach door open with one booted foot, then, hanging on to the listing doorframe, swung himself to the ground. “You’ll have to get out,” he said to Amelia.

Amelia looked over the edge of the doorsill. The drop to the floor of the dry creek bed was a good four feet. There was no way Morgan could maneuver over her to get out first and give her a hand, and she would rather fall flat on her face than touch Hatch again. Carefully she gathered her skirts in one hand, then held on to the coach with the other and gingerly lowered herself. Gabe stood watching, arms folded.

Morgan followed Amelia, his legs reaching the ground with hardly a stretch. Mrs. Smith slid along the seat toward the door and reached toward Morgan with one tiny hand. He leaned into the coach and plucked her off the seat, then set her safely down on her feet outside.

“Oh, my,” Mrs. Smith said with a little intake of breath. Her eyes went to the bulges underneath the sleeves of Morgan’s linen shirt.

The driver, the man Mrs. Smith had called Charlie, had climbed down from his seat and was flat on his back looking at the underside of the carriage. “Don’t look good,” he said.

With a sigh of exasperation, Gabe dropped to the ground and pulled himself under the coach. Heedless of the smears of dust on his black suit, he slid back out again and sat up with a look of disgust. “The axle’s cracked. This rig’s not going anywhere.”

Amelia’s mouth dropped open. “What do you mean, ‘not going anywhere’?”

Gabe stood and brushed off his hands. “I mean, Miss Prescott, that you might as well go and sit yourself down over in that soft buffalo grass, because we’re going to be here a spell.”

She looked around at the barren terrain in disbelief. “Can’t you fix it?” she asked the driver, who was sitting on his haunches and shaking his head at the disabled coach. His greasy gray hair brushed the shoulders of his buckskin jacket.

“No, ma’am,” he said mournfully without looking up.

“Well…” Amelia turned around in her tracks as if searching the horizon for a rescue party. “Someone will have to ride for help,” she said finally, looking doubtfully at the four swaybacked horses hitched to the coach.

Gabe reached up to the luggage rack and pulled down a bedroll. “Feel free to give it a try, Miss Prescott. Through Candle Rock Canyon without a saddle or bridle—that would be some mighty fine riding.”

“I didn’t mean that I should go,” she said to his back as he sauntered across the dry creek and climbed up the other side to a grassy bank.

Mattie Smith leaned over and patted her on the arm. “Don’t worry, dear. Someone will come along before too long. In the meantime, we’ll just make ourselves up a comfortable little campsite.”

“Campsite!”

“It would be silly for us to keep sitting in that stuffy old cab.”

“But…” Amelia’s voice faltered. “How long will we be out here?”

Charlie stood and gave a frustrated kick to the broken vehicle. “The mail stage should be coming through about this time tomorrow,” he said, punctuating the remark with a stream of brown tobacco juice that landed precariously close to Amelia’s skirt.

“Tomorrow…” she repeated, her voice dazed.

Gabe forced himself to take another hot swallow of Charlie Wilson’s coffee. He needed an antidote for his hangover. The sleep and fresh air had not been enough. He swatted idly at the insects that swarmed around his head. Pesky little creatures, but not vicious. Not like the blackflies farther out on the prairie that could engulf an animal in minutes and suck it dry. Kind of like some women he could name.

He looked across the campfire toward Amelia Prescott. She was a dyed-in-the wool New Yorker, not at all like her brother, who had taken to the West like a duck to water. When he’d tried to strike up a conversation with her, she’d backed away from him like a pup facing a rattler. It was just as well. He was in no mood for females, particularly not prickly Easterners with high-falutin ways. Even if this one did have hair the color of polished mahogany and a tantalizing figure that, under normal circumstances, would have caused more than his brain to come to attention.

“Are you feeling any better, Gabe?” Mattie’s mellow, sympathetic voice broke into his reverie. She stood next to him, only a head taller than he was, sitting.

Gabe gave up on the coffee and poured the remainder into the ground at his side. “I’m all right,” he said with a frown.

“You ought to be thanking me, you know.”

“Is that right?”

“That trollop was after your money. I saw her watching you all night at the tables. And when you started in drinking like a damned fool, she went over to have a cozy little chat with the bartender. They might even have slipped something in your drink.”

“Trollop?” Gabe asked with a lazy smile.

“Darn right. I saved your purse, dragging you out of there. Your worthless hide, too, likely. And I ask myself, why did I even bother?”

“’Cause I’m the only tinhorn in Deadwood you can trust, Mattie, m’love. And without me you’d never be able to get your accounts straight.”

Mattie sighed and dropped to sit beside him. “What were you trying to do, anyway, Gabe? I never saw you drink like that in Deadwood.”

“If you must know, you interrupted my anniversary celebration.”

“Anniversary of what?”

“What else? Of my wedding.”

Mattie’s jaw dropped. “You’re married?”

“I was. My wife’s dead.”

Mattie shook her head. “Who’d have figured? I always took you for the confirmed-bachelor type.”

“Yeah, well, we all make mistakes.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Gabe flopped back on the grass and looked up at the stars that were growing brighter in the night sky. “No. But that probably won’t stop your asking. Let’s just say that once a year I make it a habit to get stinking drunk in tender memory of the idealistic fool I once was. If there’s a friendly…‘trollop’ available, I might invite her to share my celebration. And that’s the end of it. The other 364 days of the year I try to live a moral and upstanding life relieving cowboys and miners of their excess cash, which, if left in their hands, would in all probability lead them down the path of degradation and sin.”

Mattie grinned. “I hadn’t realized that your motives were so lofty, Gabe.”

“Just shows how little you know of me, Mattie. I’m a prince of a fellow.”

“I never said otherwise. But as to your marriage…”

Gabe rolled up to his feet. “What is it about women that makes them ask so gol-danged many questions?” he asked her, softening the query with one of his dazzling smiles.

Without another word he walked away into the dark.

Amelia dug in her carpetbag and pulled out the silk shawl her mother had given her on her twenty-first birthday. It had been the only bright moment in an otherwise miserable day. They had all known it was going to be hard getting through the celebration without Parker. Amelia and her brother were exactly one year and one week apart in age, and up to this year they had always celebrated their birthdays together. Now Parker had taken off with only a note to explain that he had joined the latest group of gold-crazed prospectors rushing to stake out new claims in the Black Hills. Amelia could hardly believe it, and her father had been so distraught that the strain on his fragile heart had sent him to bed for two days.

It had been on the very day of her birthday that the doctor had told them sternly that her father was simply in no condition to continue to work full-time at the bank he had founded and controlled like a fiefdom for the past twenty years.

Amelia ran the fine silk through her fingers, remembering. Then she twisted the shawl around her head, letting it drape over her shoulders. She might look odd, but the insects around her ears were making her crazy. If the shawl didn’t work to keep them away, she intended to climb back into the listing coach and make her bed there.

“Is that the latest New York fashion?”

Amelia jumped at the sound of Gabe Hatch’s voice coming out of the darkness behind her. She had managed to avoid talking to him most of the evening. She cranked her head to watch him emerging from the darkness. “How did you guess that I was from New York?”

He shrugged and crouched down next to her. “You have the stamp.”

She turned back toward the fire. “I’m trying to get away from these miserable bugs. If I were in New York, I’d be wearing this shawl to the opera.”

“They won’t hurt you—the bugs, I mean. I’m not too sure about the opera.”

Amelia ignored his gibe. “There must be millions of them. Is it always like this on the prairie?”

“Yup. This time of year.” He leaned close to her head and sniffed. “Part of the problem is you smell too pretty.”

Amelia pulled away. “I beg your pardon?”

Gabe went from his crouch to a sitting position and leaned back on his hands, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “Your hair. You’ve used some kind of fancy soap and the bugs like it. Not that I blame them,” he added with a grin.

For the second time that day Amelia felt her cheeks growing warm with a blush. Not even her father had ever commented on anything so personal as the soap she used. All at once she remembered that Mr. Gabe Hatch was a reprobate. She should refuse to talk with him. But she found herself answering tartly, “I suppose they like it better than the odor of liquor.”

Gabe’s grin stretched wider under his golden mustache. “Now, that would make an interesting experiment, Miss Prescott. And I just happen to have some whiskey in my bags. Shall we try it out—for the sake of science?”

If it weren’t for the man’s remarkable smile, she would just refuse to speak to him entirely. But there was something so engaging…

“Shall I get us a bottle?” he asked again.

Amelia took a deep breath. “Mr. Hatch,” she said primly. “Obviously you are one of the unfortunate souls who…imbibe. I feel it my duty to tell you, sir, that this practice is one which can only lead to a most dire fate.”

“Ah.” Gabe’s expression became sober, but his blue eyes mocked her. “A temperance crusader. Is that why you’ve come to the Black Hills, Miss Prescott? You’ll have plenty of fodder for your campaign here, I wager.”

“I’m no crusader, Mr. Hatch. I was merely giving you some friendly advice. I was not named after Amelia Jenks Bloomer for nothing.”

Amelia bit her lip. Her mother, Caroline, had been a friend of the noted crusader for temperance and women’s suffrage when Amelia had been born, but in recent years Amelia had become a bit embarrassed at the name, particularly now that people had taken to applying it to a type of women’s underclothes. Nevertheless, something in Mr. Gabe Hatch seemed to bring out the reformer in her.

“I suppose your brother is named John Brown,” Gabe said with a look of amusement.

The remark took Amelia by surprise. Her brother had, in fact, been named after an abolitionist. Not the misguided firebrand John Brown, but the abolitionist preacher Theodore Parker, one of her father’s idols. “How do you know I have a brother?”

Gabe reached to throw a small log into the campfire. “I’m just teasing you.” His eyes came back to her. “Are you against teasing, too?”

Amelia shifted uncomfortably. The shawl had fallen to her shoulders. She had quite forgotten about the insects. “I’m not against teasing, Mr. Hatch, but you’ll forgive me if I do not find it appropriate under the circumstances in which we find ourselves.”

Gabe leaned back again and looked up at the sky. “Nothing wrong with the circumstances as far as I’m concerned. It’s a beautiful night.” He waved a hand upward. “Tell me if you’ve ever seen a sky like that back East.”

Amelia tilted her head. The sky had turned black. As she continued to stare, more and more stars appeared, until the points of light seemed to be swirling around them. “No, I’ve never seen anything like this,” she answered him finally.

Gabe nodded. “That’s the West for you. We may be lacking some of the comforts you have back home, but there are sights here that will make your heart want to leap right out of your body.”

His voice had softened. Amelia continued to stare at the spinning, star-spangled sky. A log fell in the campfire, sending up a shower of sparks that joined in the display. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio…” she murmured sleepily.

“Than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” Gabe finished quietly.

Amelia sat up straight. “You know Shakespeare, Mr. Hatch?”

Gabe grinned. “You’re surprised that a lost soul such as I can appreciate the Bard?”

Amelia nodded slowly. His eyes in the firelight were really the most extraordinary blue.

“I find it useful,” Gabe continued, moving closer to her. “I haven’t found a woman yet who can resist a sonnet.” He reached out and took her hand in his. “’Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day,’ Miss Prescott?”

She pulled her hand out of his grasp and leaned back on it. For the third time that day her cheeks began to burn. Perhaps she was coming down with some kind of prairie fever. She closed her eyes and pictured herself arriving in Deadwood just in time to expire in Parker’s arms. It would, she thought, serve her foolish, bullheaded brother right.