Читать книгу Courting the Corporal - Heather McCorkle - Страница 14

Chapter 6

The close-fitted breeches and brown leather chaps over the top of them made Catriona feel as though her legs were virtually bare. She’d had to resort to wearing only drawers beneath the breeches, as a chemise proved completely impractical to tuck in. Only her corset and corset cover lay beneath the long-sleeved tunic that covered her upper body, leaving her feeling terribly underdressed. Already the June morning was warm, but regardless, she donned a knee-length oilskin duster as she stepped from her hotel room onto the porch. It had a bit of an odd smell to it but right now all she cared about was that it covered her.

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 and clouding her mind. “My apolo—fine. Mr. Fergusson, what do you mean by saying there is no need to settle our bill?”

She couldn’t help but wonder how much of a rogue this man might be. He wouldn’t skip out on paying their bill, would he? Surely Sean and Ashlinn wouldn’t trust her in the company of a man like that. But how could one such as he afford a fine establishment like the one they’d stayed in last night? Well, she wasn’t about to skip out without paying. To start her journey in such a manner was unthinkable.

“I already settled it,” he said.

The surprise must have shown on her face because he rolled his eyes skyward and shook his head. His arm reached toward her and just as she was about to flinch back, his hand closed on a door handle directly to her right. She let out a breath. Wood ground against wood as he slid the door open, revealing a dark tack room. Leaving her gaping, he stepped inside.

“There was no need for that. I’m funding this journey,” she said.

She was forced to step out of the way as he walked out of the room carrying a saddle in one hand and a bridle in the other. The morning light pouring in through the open door of the stables afforded her a glimpse of his blank face.

“I chose the hotel,” he said as he walked past, eyes flicking out the door for a brief moment before he turned down the aisle toward the horses.

His long legs stretched out into a quick pace, as if he were in a hurry to get away from her. Did this topic bother him so much? She did not want him paying for this on the principles of being a gentleman, not when she clearly had more coin than he did. Besides, it indebted her to him, and she liked that far less. Trying not to stomp like a child, she stormed after him.

“Well if I had known you were going to pay for it, I would have insisted on a more frugal hotel.”

He entered his horse’s stall without even glancing back at her. “’Tis done, forget about it. Now if you’ll please saddle your horse, we need to get moving.”

Though she couldn’t see his face, the impatience in his tone told her all she needed to know.

“Fine. But I am paying you back for the expense.”

When he didn’t answer after a moment, she gritted her teeth against a growl and stormed back to the tack room. Lincoln gave a playful little bark and bounded after her. She patted his head before fetching her saddle and returning to the horses. Aside from the pup’s playful antics, they saddled their horses in silence. The big painted horse stood quietly for her, solidifying her concerns that he may fall asleep on the trail. How ever were they going to get to California on time with horses like these? The longing for her fox hunter mare became an ache so deep she began to fear she was making a mistake.

It wasn’t the horse so much, and certainly not the grand house or all that laid within it. She missed Deirdre and Sadie and worried for them, as they had started their journey as well. Would they be safe with their armed escorts? Had they made the right decision? How would the Widows of the 69th organization fare without them?

Sneaking looks at Fergusson’s mount as he worked on the packhorse, she tried to figure out the proper fitting for the rear cinch and breast collar. Both looked loose compared to how she had put hers on the painted horse.

“Too tight,” came Fergusson’s voice from directly over her shoulder.

Though she jumped inside, she managed to hide the reaction. He loosened both the breast collar and the rear cinch a little then handed her something that fit in the palm of her hand. She flipped the cool, metal object over. A compass. Brows rising, she gave him a hard look.

“Do you expect we’ll get lost?” she asked.

“No. That’s for if we get separated so you can find your way to the next station.”

She clutched the compass a bit tighter. “Why would we get separated?”

He retreated to his own horse, calling over his shoulder as he walked. “Weather, animals, natives. If it happens, you keep going, get to the next station, and I’ll meet you there.”

“Station?” she asked, feeling terribly clueless.

“The old Pony Express stations. We’ll be traveling close to the trail they established, and there were stations every ten miles or so. It doesn’t matter if they’ve been repurposed or not. Even if they’re burnt to the ground, we can still meet there.” His matter-of-a-fact tone grated her all kinds of wrong ways.

Without so much as another word, he swung up into the saddle of his buckskin gelding and turned him toward the back door to the stables. Considering he had not even offered to help her onto her horse, she surmised that his paying for the hotel had not been a gentlemanly act so much as one of pride. It figured. She tucked the compass into a pocket.

To her delight, the horse stood still as she swung up into the odd saddle. Sleepy he may be, but at least he was well trained. The saddle held her securely, rising up both in front of and behind her. It was a bit snug for her liking, considering she had only ever ridden in an English saddle, or bareback. The tails of both Fergusson’s buckskin and his speckled packhorse drew quickly away. Lincoln trotted on ahead, darting out into the sunshine. By the time she took up the reins Fergusson was nearly to the open back door.

“Is there a reason we’re going out the back?” she called to him.

“Aye.”

She waited, but only the clop of his horse’s hooves on the packed dirt outside broke the silence that fell. With a squeeze of her legs, she urged her horse to catch up. The gelding leaped into a trot, surprising her with his enthusiasm. She quickly caught up to ride alongside Fergusson. His gaze remained fixed on the road ahead. It was a back road that skirted along the edge of town the best she could tell. At some unseen command from him, his horse began to trot, the packhorse instantly picking up the gait as well. Though her horse’s ears perked forward, he didn’t pick up the trot until she squeezed with her legs. At this point, she wasn’t sure if it was good training, or just laziness.

The town began to fall behind them. Their little side street came around a grouping of cottonwood trees whose green, heart-shaped leaves blocked the sun for a brief moment. Once past the trees the road joined the wide, main road leading out of town. Fergusson glanced back toward town, his shoulders relaxing a bit before his eyes went back to the road ahead. They kept to the side, near the grass, avoiding the wagon wheel ruts. Since he didn’t slow, she forced herself to sit in the saddle rather than post through the trot as she had been taught. It felt a bit unnatural, but if they were going to keep this pace up, she would quickly tire by posting.

“Are we in a hurry for some reason?” she asked.

“Aye.”

Damn that man and his simple answers. She opened her mouth to unleash a tart reply when he spoke again.

“You said you ride well.” It was more of a question than a statement.

“Yes, I do.”

Green eyes sparkled with mischief as he shot her a grin. “Let’s find out then.”

The haunches of his buckskin dropped down as the horse dug in, then launched into a gallop. His spotted packhorse followed suit a pace later. She was suddenly glad she had left all her valuables for the wagon to bring, particularly the breakable ones. Her own painted horse became a bundle of tense muscles and energy beneath her but waited for her command. Perhaps he was well trained after all. Gritting her teeth and dropping her heels low to gain a deeper seat in the saddle, she squeezed her legs. Her horse bolted after the other, quickly catching up to run alongside Fergusson. Beside them, Lincoln ran with all the glee only a dog can, ears flopping and tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

As the pup began to lag behind, Fergusson reined his horse back into a slow canter and settled deep in the saddle as if for a long haul. Brows raised high, he gave her a nod that she took to mean he was impressed. However, the grin on his face looked a bit too stretched. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him glance behind them again. Chills began to creep up her spine as she wondered what he was looking for.