Читать книгу The Law And Miss Hardisson - Lynna Banning, Lynna Banning - Страница 14

On the short buggy ride to Parker’s Meadow—straight out of town on the Portland road the liveryman had instructed, then sharp right at the double oak trees—Clayton watched Irene fidget on the black leather seat beside him. Plain as buttered pancakes she was itching to do something, but he’d lay odds it wasn’t rolling along in a buggy so close to him her skirt brushed his thigh.

The instant they crested the rise and the meadow spread before them like a rich green carpet, she settled down. Far across the swath of long grass two men dressed in black sat motionless at a makeshift table, its legs hidden in the lush grass.

The chess players. Clayton shot a glance at Irene and frowned. Her gaze was riveted on the two figures hunched over the table. Her eyes sparkled. “Can you go any faster?”

Faster? He didn’t expect her to be this interested. Then again, she wasn’t like most women he’d known.

Which, he acknowledged, had been few and far between. He let out a long breath. All his life he’d taken pains to mask his Cherokee blood with white man’s trappings, as his father had. The only concession he made to his Indian heritage was refusing to cut his hair but once each year. Out here in untamed Oregon, he didn’t look too different from anybody else, but he wondered what Irene would say if she knew about his Cherokee side, how he’d been shunned in both worlds, Indian and white. How uncomfortable he felt in towns like this, or with a woman like her.

As they drew near, Irene leaned forward, her hands clasped in her lap. Clayton pulled the rig into an area of flattened grass and set the brake. A few saddle horses raised their heads, then returned to their desultory cropping of the grass at their feet.

It was a perfect afternoon, Clayton noted. He considered unhitching the mare, then thought better of it. Irene would be bored and hungry in an hour—two at the most. When she grew tired of watching the game she’d want to head back to town—or, better still, lounge on the meadow and have a picnic with him. And then she’d start talking about Fortier.

He could hardly wait. He turned to speak to her, but she was gone. “Now where the hell…”

A flash of blue sateen drew his eyes to the small table set under a spreading oak. Two motionless players in long black frock coats and soft black caps atop their gray heads sat like two large blackbirds, bent over the chessboard between them. Irene positioned herself to one side, folded her arms across her waist and watched.

Clayton waited for her to move or shift position, but she remained still as a blue-clad statue. Purposefully he circled the small gathering of onlookers, watching Irene, who in turn studied the chess pieces with as much intensity as the two rail-thin players. Russians, someone at the hotel had said. Homesteading adjacent plots of land in Crazy Creek Valley, the two met every Friday to play chess.

Irene watched the game with unwavering intensity, moving only once to shoo away a bumblebee. The sun climbed high overhead, slipped off center and began to descend.

Clayton began to pace. He hadn’t anticipated her complete absorption in the proceedings; her look of rapt fascination made him just a tad uneasy. He craved some talk about events concerning Brance Fortier’s disappearance, but at the moment she was plainly interested only in the chess match.

He walked about the meadow in ever-widening circles, skirting the fringe of fir trees where afternoon shadows began to lengthen, frustration building inside him. On his next loop near the chess table, he studied Irene for signs of flagging interest. She never even looked up at him.

With a groan, Clayton tramped back to the buggy, loosened the harness and removed the bit from the horse’s mouth. No sense keeping the rig at the ready—Irene was lost in the game.

Another hour crept by and she didn’t move an inch. Maybe he’d better give up on the idea of a quiet interrogation under the guise of polite picnic conversation.

Or maybe he had a better idea. Noiselessly he edged close to Irene, leaned forward and breathed a single word into her ear. “Lunch?”

“Oh, yes,” she whispered without moving. Her gaze pinned on the game before her, she stuck out her hand. “A sandwich, if you please.”

Clayton plopped a small towel-wrapped bundle into her outstretched palm and watched her unwrap it. She nibbled at the slice of chicken poking out between the slices of bread. While he watched her take occasional dainty bites, her attention glued to the chessboard, he devoured four sandwiches and washed them down with a swig of lukewarm coffee from a glass jar. He wished like anything it was whiskey. This whole charade was getting his dander up.

Irene Hardisson had said barely three words in as many hours. Only a scattering of pieces remained on the board, but neither of the solemn-face men had made a move in the past thirty minutes. The game was at a standstill.

No one moved. No one spoke. Irene swallowed the last of her sandwich and stood as if transfixed, her eyes on the board. She cradled her chin in her palm, frowning.

About time, Clayton thought with a rush of hope. She’s gettin’ bored. He’d just sidle around to her side and ease her away for a private chat.

He touched her elbow, cupped his fingers about the rounded bone and gave a gentle tug.

Irene stood solid as a brick chimney. He pulled again. “Irene,” he whispered. “It’s about time we—”

“Hush!” she hissed.

Clayton released her arm and glanced skyward. Lord help him! He’d been outmaneuvered by a stubborn lady and two old Russian farmers. When he lowered his gaze, he noted the sun just touched the tips of the tall firs encircling the meadow. Another hour and they wouldn’t be able to see the chessboard!

Clayton gritted his teeth. His shoulder was beginning to ache. His feet, too. Most of the tracking he did was on horseback; he wasn’t used to a lot of walking.

But Irene’s interest showed no sign of flagging. In fact, she didn’t look the least bit tired. Or bored. Her face was lit up like a child’s at a candy counter.

Clayton jammed his good hand into his trouser pocket and rocked back on his heels. No, she was definitely not bored. And definitely not chattering to him about Brance Fortier, as he had planned. Devil take the girl!

Give it up, amigo. You made a bad bargain.

He hated to think about the time he’d wasted out here. What was worse, he grumbled to himself as he strode another circuit around the meadow, she hadn’t done it intentionally. Hell and damn. He’d best go feed an apple to that patient mare he’d tied up beside the buggy.

Just as he started to leave, a small sound broke the silence. A carved wooden chess piece, a king, Clayton recognized, lay tipped on its side in the center of the board.

“All right, Isaac,” one of the men muttered. “You vin.”

“Mmm-hmm, Mordecai, vat I tell you?”

“Wait!” a feminine voice ordered. “Queen to bishop three!”

Clayton froze. Both men’s eyes turned toward Irene.

“I mean,” Irene stammered, “if you move your queen to…”

One of the black-clad men leaped to his feet. “Isaac, look! Iss the Hostage Lady!”

Aghast, Irene stared at the man. The Hostage Lady? Was that what she was called? Good gracious!

She sneaked a glance at the lean, tanned Texas Ranger who stood off to one side, one hand in his pocket, eyeing her with sudden interest. Mercy! She most certainly did not relish the thought of Mr. Black’s finding out her role in that hostage matter. Clayton Black had been trailing that man—Brance Fortier—the very man she had helped to escape. If it weren’t for her, the outlaw would still be languishing in the Crazy Creek jail.

The taller of the two chess players leaped to his feet, snatched the cap off his head and bowed low. “Most honored, Missus Lady. You safe my son, Benjamin. Trade him for that horse thief! Be seated, please!”

The other man, Isaac, whipped a bandanna from his vest pocket and ceremoniously dusted off the crude chair his friend had vacated. “Please, sit, lady. Please!” He clasped one arm over his middle and bowed from the waist.

“Oh, please, I—” Irene gripped the back of the hand-hewn chair. “I only meant to say you need not concede—there is one move you can make to checkmate, you see?” She pointed to the chessboard. “With your opponent’s king exposed as it is, all you have to do is advance your queen—”

“Nyet! Game iss not important, now.” Mordecai, at least she thought that was his name, waved one long arm over the table. “You are important! You are Hostage Lady, who talk to outlaw and get my son back for me.”

“Oh, no, I merely…” Irene shrank inwardly at the sudden expression of anger that crossed Clayton Black’s regular features. One black eyebrow twitched upward. He yanked his hand out of his pocket and held it up.

“Well, now,” he drawled, “I don’t believe I’ve heard this part of the story.”

Isaac beamed. “Oh, she was so brave! So smart!”

“Smart,” Clayton repeated in a quiet voice. His eyes burned into hers with such intensity she could not look away. Her cheeks grew hot. She didn’t want the lawman to hear this, didn’t want to acknowledge her part in freeing the murderer he had chased all the way from Texas.

“And brave, too!” Isaac reminded with enthusiasm. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.

“Brave, too, huh?” Clayton nodded, holding her gaze. “It figures.”

Mordecai’s bony hands tugged at the top button on his coat. “All day she talk to sheriff, then to outlaw, then again to sheriff. Then it gets late, and she walks alone down the street and outlaw, he walks from opposite with his hand on my son’s neck, and they meet in middle, in front of saloon.”

“And that’s how Fortier got away,” Clayton supplied. The edge in his voice sent a shiver up Irene’s spine.

“Miss Hardisson, you played right into Fortier’s hands.”

“But I had to do it, Mr. Black. He threatened to shoot the boy!”

Mordecai wrung his hands together. “She safe my Benjamin’s life, iss vat she does!”