Read The Duchess and Desperado Online

Authors: Laurie Grant

Tags: #Romance, #Historical Romance, #Nineteenth Century, #American West, #Protector

The Duchess and Desperado (20 page)

BOOK: The Duchess and Desperado
2.65Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
“Mr. Faulkner, you didn't tell me you were on your honeymoon,” John Sharpton teased as Morgan sat down to join them.
“We're not,” Morgan said with perfect honesty, grinning, then added in a tone loud enough to carry to the duchess, “What can I say, gentlemen? I'm a lucky man to have a wife as beautiful as my Sarah, aren't I?” He chuckled as he dared a glance back and caught a glimpse of the duchess's dazed face.
 
By the time they pulled in to Fountain, a little wide spot in the road past Colorado Springs, Morgan's hopes had more than been fulfilled. He'd let three of the other men win a couple of hands, and then he'd casually suggested raising the stakes to five dollars a hand. Now the pocket in which he kept their money was fatter by fifty dollars than when the game had started, for Sharpton had been no better a poker player than Morgan had guessed he would be, and the other men had been no match for Morgan's skill, either. And to make matters even more agreeable, it looked as if none of them were going to be sore losers, either.
“Mr. Faulkner, I bow to your superior skill,” Sharpton said as he arose. “I've enjoyed myself tremendously, but now it is time to bid you and your delightful English rose goodbye.”
“You aren't leaving?” Morgan said. He'd assumed the Englishman was traveling on to Pueblo, just as the rest of them were. “Why would you want to stop in a place like this?” he added, gesturing out the window. It didn't look as if there was much to the town of Fountain but the train station itself.
“Ah, but my business partner is meeting me here—he lives in these parts, you see.”
“It's been a pleasure, Mr. Sharpton,” Morgan said, extending his hand. He'd grown to genuinely like the dapper little Englishman.
Sharpton shook his hand, then, moving into the aisle, murmured, “Mrs. Faulkner, it's been
my
pleasure encountering you and your good husband on the train,” before taking her hand in his and kissing it.
While Morgan was enjoying the bemusement playing over the duchess's face at this courtly gesture, Sharpton clapped him on the back with bluff bonhomie. “Mr. Faulkner, you are indeed a lucky man.” Then he was moving down the aisle toward the door of the passenger car.
“What a delightful fellow,” commented Sarah, who had put on her spectacles and was watching through the window as Sharpton descended the steps onto the station platform.
“A durn good loser, too. Wait'll I tell you how much...”
Morgan's voice trailed off as he saw a bearded, roughlooking man hail Sharpton from the open grassy area next to the train station. The man was mounted on one rangy horse and leading another, already saddled.
“You reckon
that's
his business partner?” Morgan said, pointing at the two. Sharpton had seen the man and, wearing a big smile, had gone forward to him. “He sure wasn't what I was picturing.”
“Nor I,” agreed Sarah as they watched the little man mount the horse the other held for him, then gather up the reins with surprising agility. “Who'd have thought his ‘business partner' would look more the outlaw than you?”
Morgan grinned at the gentle gibe. “Very funny, Duchess, but let me tell you how much I won for us,” he said as the Englishman and his odd associate began to trot away from the station. “Thanks to my ‘superior skill' at poker, we are now fifty dollars richer,” he said proudly, patting the side pocket where he kept the little leather drawstring bag of money—and going cold when he realized it wasn't there anymore.
Chapter Twenty
 
 
S
arah saw the blood drain from Morgan's face right along with the cocky pride that had been there. Now apprehension skittered along her spine as he jumped up and, leaning over her, stared out the window.
“Morgan, what's wrong? What happened?”
“Why, that damn bastard,” he breathed. “That damn, cheating bastard!” And then he was running for the door.
It was clearly already too late to stop Sharpton, Sarah could see with the aid of her spectacles as she reached Morgan's side. Sharpton and his partner were already out of range, galloping away from the train.
By this time the other passengers were spilling out of the train around them, and the stationmaster had approached.
“Something wrong, mister?”
“The damned English bastard who just left your tram picked my pocket, and it wasn't chicken feed he got, either!” Morgan exclaimed. “He saw which pocket I was putting my winnings in—just ask the rest of those fellows who were playing with us, back on the train!”
“Sounds like you've been a victim of ol' English John,” the stationmaster commented.
“Yeah, sounds like English John, all right,” agreed the engineer, who had gotten off the train and heard the conversation. “He does this all the time, mister—acts like a green-as-grass tenderfoot, makes friends with some fellers, proposes a game, then as he's leavin' picks the pocket o' whoever wins the most. I throw him off if I spy him gettin' on the train, but I didn't see him this time, and Asa here—” he nodded toward the conductor, who had also joined the group “—is new, so he didn't know him.”
The conductor nodded, his expression apologetic.
“I'm right sorry this happened to ya,” the engineer added, “but I got a schedule to keep. What's it gonna be—you want your horses so you can go chase that feller, or you gonna get back on the train?”
Sarah watched the conflicting emotions chase one another across the pale, lean features of Morgan Calhoun. He could probably get Rio off-loaded and saddled and still catch the Englishman and his partner, but the train wouldn't wait. And what would become of Sarah if the two thieves got the drop on him?
His shoulders were slumping and his green eyes were dull with impotent fury as he stomped back up the steps and trudged down the aisle to slouch beside her, ignoring the commiserating looks and remarks aimed at him by the other men who'd been in the poker game.
“You might as well shoot me, for all the good
I
am, Sarah,” he said. “We don't have much now. After letting me win it for him, that bastard took it all, plus most of the money we had left from buying supplies back at Cherry Creek—and I didn't even feel him do it. Damn me for a fool!”
Sarah's heart was wrenched at the bleak self-reproach she saw in his face. Knowing Morgan, it had to sting all the more that the foreigner who had robbed them looked as if he couldn't survive a strong blast of wind.
She laid a gentle hand on Morgan's wrist. “Don't be so hard on yourself, M—Jake. We'll be all right. You paid for tickets to take us all the way to Pueblo, didn't you? We still have some supplies left, don't we?”
“Yeah, we're set all the way to Pueblo, but those supplies won't last forever. We're gonna need to buy more before long. And the last I looked, you don't have any jewels left to sell,” he reminded her bitterly, his eyes raking her earlobes, her neckline and ringless fingers.
“I could always put on another concert,” she observed, then realized there was nothing in that plan to salvage his wounded pride. “I have it! While
I
distract the men as ‘The French Nightingale,'
you
can win all their money ”
He gave her a twisted half smile, then said in a soft, wry drawl, “I sure hope your Frenchman knows how much backbone you've got, Duchess.”
Sarah wanted to say she was merely showing the legendary British stiff upper lip, but she couldn't manage a word as she drowned in the admiration-filled green pools of his eyes.
 
“Sarah, wake up. We're here,” Morgan said the next morning, rousing the woman who'd been sleeping against his shoulder most of the night.
“Huh? Wha—?” Blinking like a sleepy owl, she stared up at him as she tried to focus, then sat bolt upright, blushing. “Sorry,” she muttered, looking away as she tried in vain to set her hair to rights, then started digging into the pockets of her skirt.
“Quite all right, ma‘am,” he said, amused, then handed her her spectacles. “Lookin' for these, were you? I took them off you when you fell asleep, so they wouldn't get bent.” He hadn't slept much himself. Truth be told, he'd spent a good bit of the night just staring down at her in the pale light furnished by the moon that seemed to be following their railroad car. He'd been wishing she could fall asleep against him every night—but in a bed, lying down, and not wearing all these clothes, either. He didn't tell her that, though
They decided it was probably best to try to remain in Pueblo that night. Trafalgar was no longer favoring one leg, but it was wiser to rest her for another day. And while they had enough supplies to ride on for a couple of days, what few towns lay between Pueblo and the New Mexican border were even smaller and rougher than Pueblo, certainly not the sort of places he'd want to linger with the duchess—especially not with the duchess playing “Fifi” in that dazzling gold gown.
The owner of the Arkansas River Saloon was more than willing to let “Mam'selle Fifi” sing at his establishment that night, and charge a dollar a customer, provided she and Morgan would split the profits fifty-fifty with him. They agreed, then, buoyed by their success, went on to the hotel.
They had no difficulty in obtaining a room after “Fifi” began batting her eyelashes at the manager and promising him, in thickly French-accented English, a seat up front at her concert that night. They were able to secure box stalls at the livery for the horses the same way, and even managed to get in some target practice before it was time to get ready for the concert.
 
After replenishing their supplies at the general store, they left Pueblo the next morning.
“Now, Duchess,” Morgan began after they'd left the town behind them and trotted over the rolling plains with its dry buffalo grass, “I don't want to alarm you or nothin', but it's possible we'll see some Apaches between here and when we hit the Santa Fe Trail.”
“Apaches?” she said, her face alarmed. “You mean... Indians?”
“Yeah, we're in Jicarilla Apache country now,” he told her. “I've met some of ‘em before and gotten along with them—it didn't hurt that none of us liked 'the Federals,' but there's different bands of Apaches, and you never know. I can speak their lingo, but if I had my druthers, I'd just as soon not meet up with them, since you're along. From here on out, Duchess, you keep those spectacles on, your pistol handy, and don't even think of lettin' that braid out from under your hat, you hear?” He hated frightening her, but it was better that she know the truth. At least he'd taught her to shoot, but he wished they'd had more time to practice.
After that first flash of apprehension on her face had vanished, though, Sarah appeared unperturbed, giving him a jaunty imitation of a British sailor's salute, saying, “Aye aye, Captain.”
He chuckled. “You're in a mighty good mood, Duchess. Still pleased with yourself for havin' every man in that saloon swoonin' at your feet?”
“While you took their money at cards? I notice you sat and played with your back to the stage,” Sarah teased.
“Why do you think I did so well?” he retorted. “
I
didn't have the distraction.” He hadn't had any relief, either, from his constant desire for her, but it felt good to laugh with her again, almost as good as it would feel to kiss and hold her—No! He couldn't allow himself to think about that.
“Speaking of moods, Trafalgar's in a strange one this morning,” she said, just after her mare gave Rio a playful nip and curvetted away from him, then paused to water the ground.
Rio responded with interest, trumpeting at the thoroughbred, and Morgan reined him farther away from Sarah's mare.
“Your mare's comin' into season, Duchess,” he said, watching as the dawn revealed a blush suffusing her face under the floppy-brimmed hat.
“Oh! Of course, how silly of me,” she murmured, staring down at the mare. “She does so every fourteen to twenty-one days from late winter through late spring, then less often in the summer, Ben says—
said
,” she corrected herself with a sad shake of her head, “and she hasn't done so since...oh, Kansas City, I suppose....”
“Sorry, I don't reckon I'm supposed to be talkin' about such things with a lady, especially a duchess,” Morgan said, though he loved it when she blushed.
“I think that by proposing this madcap journey, I've lost the right to strict Victorian propriety, don't you?” Sarah commented wryly “But Morgan, are we going to be able to keep them apart?” she asked as their mounts continued to eye each other and prance, their tails held high.
He shrugged Of course his pinto stallion must not mate with the prized thoroughbred, any more than he could take the duchess in his arms and make her his. “I'll do my best, Duchess. But it isn't going to be easy, travelin' together.”
It isn't going to be any easier than it is keeping my hands off you.
“Still, it would be a darling foal, though, wouldn't it?” she said musingly. “I wonder if it would be skewbald—that is, pinto—like his sire, or bay like Trafalgar....”
 
They camped at dusk in another draw, carefully tethering Rio as far away from Trafalgar and the packhorse as they could. This time supper was antelope steaks, for there had been a pair of pronghorns drinking at the thin trickle of a stream in the draw, and Morgan had quickly pulled his Winchester out of its scabbard on his saddle and shot one of them. Sarah had been sad to see the graceful, large-eyed creature lying dead, but she had to admit its meat was delicious.
“Morgan, tell me about the war,” Sarah said once their bellies were full and they were lying back against their blanket-padded saddles. She'd wanted to ask him about his time as a soldier for a long while, sensing his experiences in the war had somehow set the stage for the outlaw he had become
“Well, I was only in the regular Confederate army for the early part of the war,” he began, crossing his booted legs at the ankles as he lay back, still chewing on the meat that clung to a leg bone. “I was servin' with Jeb Stuart. Then John Mosby asked me to join his Virginia boys in a partisan raiding group. We stole horses, cattle and wagons from the enemy—whatever our army needed. We captured Yankee soldiers—even a brigadier general once—burned trains, destroyed track....”
“It must have been tremendously dangerous,” Sarah commented.
“It was, sometimes, but they never came real close to takin' us. Mosby was too clever.”
She could see him smiling at the memory. “You loved it, this guerrilla fighting, didn't you?”
“Yeah...have to admit I did,” he said with a sheepish grin, then his face turned serious in the light of the campfire. “We were always on the run, never stayin' in the same place twice... but Mosby's Rangers were the bravest, best men I ever knew,”
His answer to the next question would be highly significant, she knew. “Morgan...your experience as a guerrilla fighter...did it make it hard for you to settle down, once you were back in Texas?”
He met her gaze, but she couldn't read his eyes. “You mean, is that why I turned outlaw, because I'd developed a taste for it?”
“No, Morgan, I didn't mean—”
“Yes, you did,” he argued, “but it's all right. No, that isn't why. I'd had a good time bein' one of Mosby's Rangers, but I sure was ready to get back to the peaceful life I'd known back in Texas before the war. Only they wouldn't let me.”
“‘They'?” she echoed softly.
“The Federals, and their carpetbagger friends that descended on Texas like fire ants at a picnic—and the scalawags, the ones who lived in the South but were really Yankee sympathizers. One of them started the whispers—‘You say you're missm' some cattle? That Morgan Calhoun over at the Flying C, you know he was one of Mosby's Rangers I reckon he stole your stock an' ran 'em down to Mexico to sell ‘em.' Soon as I'd leave the mercantile, he'd sidle up to the proprietor and whisper that they'd seen me stealin' things off the shelves. ‘You know he's used to livin' off the land Reckon he's still doin' it,' he'd say. He even told the sheriff once he'd been robbed ridin' into town, and the robber looked like me, even though I'd supposedly had a bandanna over most of my face.”
BOOK: The Duchess and Desperado
2.65Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

I can make you hate by Charlie Brooker
After by Sue Lawson
Heaven in His Arms by Lisa Ann Verge
The Bridegroom by Joan Johnston
Mine to Take by Cynthia Eden
Dare Me Again by Karin Tabke
Windy City Blues by Sara Paretsky