Tender Touch (9 page)

Then he was gone.

Brianna sighed as she wiped her eyes. Wood shavings littered the floor beneath the chair he had occupied. Such a curious man, she thought. Hard as stone, crude, and illiterate, yet he could be so gentle. He’d taken better care of her than her husband ever would have.

Would he help her get to Oregon? She would have to ask. She knew not what else to do. Easing Shakespeare aside, she rose and walked to the chair. There she knelt, filled her hands with yellow wood shavings, and sniffed. Apples. They smelled of apple trees—and Columbus Nigh.

Nigh looked up in surprise as Brianna sat down across from him at the small table in the dining room. As usual she wore her somber widow’s weeds, covered by the voluminous black cloak. The restaurant was crowded and smelled of fried ham, bacon, and freshly baked biscuits. Using a slug of hot coffee, he washed down the bite of eggs he had just taken, and asked if she wanted something to eat.

“No.” Her stomach lurched at the sight of the greasy food on his plate. “Only tea, please, cream, no lemon.”

Lifting his hand, Nigh motioned to a pudgy waitress. When the tea was placed before her, Brianna removed her gloves, added a large dollop of cream and silently stirred it in. The sounds of silverware clinking against china, laughter, and cheerful conversation, punctuated with a few curse words, floated around them. Nigh’s mouth quirked as Brianna winced at the loud belches indulged in by the roomful of men. Except for the waitress, only three other women were present. He waited patiently for Brianna to tell him what was on her mind.

“Please, finish your breakfast,” she said.

Taking her at her word, he stuffed a large helping of ham into his mouth, his eyes still on her. She sipped daintily at her tea, her gaze darting uncertainly about the room. Paper in a scroll-like pattern of green and white covered the walls above the wainscoting. Framed etchings of Parisian scenes hung from the molding just below the ceiling. Gre
en oilcloth covered each table.

Only after Nigh had taken his last bite did she speak: “Wha
t happened to the little girl?”

“Found a couple who’d lost their girl. They seemed real glad to take her.”

She nodded, stirred her tea, and straightened the napkin on her lap. “I must ask for your
help one more time, Mr. Nigh.”

Nigh frowned. Back to Mister, was it? That didn’t bode well.

Brianna took a deep breath to fortify herself. “I’ve decided to go on to Oregon, if Mr. Magrudge’s company will take me. I’m hoping you’ll drive me out there today so I can see about arrangements.”

Nigh laid down his knife and fork, leaned back in his chair, and studied her. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you want to go to Oregon?”

Brianna looked down at her hands, folded primly in her lap. The man’s scrutiny made her feel like a specimen under a botanist’s magnifying glass. She raised her chin and stiffened her back. “I’ve nothing to return to in St. Louis, Mr. Nigh. The idea of traveling to a new country appeals to me.”

He scooted back in his chair, legs sprawled half-under the table, half-out, one arm slung over the back of his chair. “Got any idea how difficult a trip you’re talkin’ about? Four, five months, camping in the wilderness. Snakes, wolves, Injuns . . . cholera. Dust blowing in your face sunup to sundown, and no privacy for calls of nature. You ready for that?”

Her cheeks reddened at his plain speaking. “I-I have to be. I have no choice.”

Nigh could see she was close to tears, but wasn’t about to let up. “
Why? Who are you running from?”

Panic-stricken eyes stared back at him. Unconsciously she began to toy with the plain gold band on her left hand. “N-no one. I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

The raised voices of two men at a nearby table caught his attention. Jumping to his feet, he tossed down a few coins to pay for his meal. He hauled Brianna from her chair, barely giving her time to snatch up her gloves, before heading for the door. Behind them dishes crashed to the floor as the two men began to fight. Shocked, she turned to watch, but Nigh jerked her roughly out into the hotel lobby.

“Where are we going?” she asked as he towed her through the crowded room.

“Somewhere where we can talk.”

At the foot of the stairs she balked, but he pulled her up the stairs behind him, down the hall to her room. He held out his hand. “The key.”

“I thought we were going to talk.”

“We are. In there. Now give me the key.”

She glanced up and down the hall, her words a harsh whisper. “We can’t. It would cause a scandal.”

Nigh thrust his face close to hers, slitted eyes as cold and unbending as the metal key he demanded she give him. “You know a single soul in this town?”

“No, but—”

“But nothing. You intend to live here?”

“No.”

“Then why in thunder should you care what these folks think? I could force you into that room, screaming, and have my way with you, and no one would lift a finger. They have their own problems, ain’t going to pay no mind to yours.”

Blushing from head to toe and bristling with anger, Brianna drew herself up and glared at him eye to eye. “Whether or not anyone else cares how I conduct myself, I do!”

“Fine. Behave as proper as you want, just give me that key. I said we were going to have a talk and I meant it, but not out here where every saddle bum with an itch for gold can hear us.”

“No. I-I have no way of knowing what may have happened while I lay unconscious last night, Mr. Nigh, but I don’t intend to tempt fate by being alone in my room with you again.”

Damn the woman! It wasn’t fate that had suffered the temptation of hell last night, and won—for her benefit.

Before she could make a move to resist him, he flipped open her cloak and felt at her waist for a hidden pocket or purse. His face was so close to hers, she could smell the coffee on his breath.

“Stop it! You hear me?” she said, struggling to break free.

“You always this stubborn?” He pushed away her protesting hands. “Ain’t no surprise to me some man found it necessary to beat you. Been tempted to do the same more’n once since I met you and, dammit, I might yet!”

Chapter Nine

Terrorized by Columbus Nigh’s anger, Brianna froze. Taking advantage, he plunged his fingers deep into a side pocket of her skirt and withdraw the key he had felt through the fabric, ignoring the self-loathing he felt for using her fear against her. Throwing the door open, he shoved her inside.

“Now start talking,” he said, leaning against the closed door.

Afraid to go near the bed, even to calm the cat whose hair had risen on his back at the tension charging the air, Brianna sat down in the chair by the window. She kept her eyes on her lap, smoothing her skirts, and arranging the folds, hoping to give some semblance of calm. “I thought you wanted to talk to me.”

“You know what it
is I want to hear. Get to it.”

Refusing to look up at him, she continued fussing with her skirts. Then she drew the cloak tightly closed over her bosom and folded her hands demurely in her lap.

Nigh crossed the room in a flash. He grabbed her by the arms, lifting her to her feet to face him. “Blast your proper manners all to hell, madam. How can I help you if you won’t talk to me? Tell me who you’re running from.”

Blue-green eyes stared back at him, large as fear-filled tea cups. Her full, finely etched lips were parted and quivering. Her rose scent wafted up to him, and something snapped inside him. White heat blazed a trail to his brain, obliterating everything except her lips and the desire they aroused in him. With a groan, he folded his arms around her and hugged her tight against his body so she could feel the warmth she had ignited in him.

Then, with a shock, he realized it was more than physical lust he felt. More than frustration and concern. More even than passion. He wanted to protect this woman, to keep her safe, warm, and forever at his side.

Brianna saw the tumultuous gray of his eyes soften to warm violet. When his lips touched hers, she froze, barely breathing. She reminded herself that this was the man who had saved her from the Santa Fe traders, who had slept within feet of her for days without touching her. Yes, he often infuriated her and sometimes terrified her—like now. But surely, if he were going to hurt her, he would have done it by now. He had said he would never hit her. Even so, she could not relax, could not banish her alarm. And in the back of her mind her conscience went to work, telling her that to let this man take what he wanted would be a sin. She was still a married woman; faking her death and running away hadn’t changed that.

Nigh brushed his lips over hers, testing, tasting, trying to get some reaction out of her. The feel of her unmoving in his arms was more than he could bear. He opened his eyes. As he had feared, her face was white, her eyes wild with panic.

Anger surged in his veins; at himself, and at her. He shoved her back down and leaned toward her, his palms braced on the arms of the chair.

“Dammit, woman, why don’t you fight me? If you don’t want me to kiss you,
say so. Stand up for yourself.”

Her eyes went blank for a second, the fear turning to confusion. “You were angry.”

He flung himself away from her and stomped across the room. “What the hell’s
that got to do with anything?”

He turned and came back. For a long moment he stared at her while he sought control. Then he knelt by her chair. He kept his voice low and smooth. “Brianna, just because I’m angry doesn’t mean you have to knuckle under to me. You have a right to get mad, too.”

She looked at him as though he’d spoken a foreign tongue. Her delicately arched brows drew together, creating furrows between her eyes. Her long eyelashes blinked. She cocked her head as though finding his words incomprehensible.

Nigh took her slender hand in his. “Most men aren’t like your husband. They don’t beat their wives, no matter what the women do.”

“You never hit your wife?”

“No.” His mouth quirked up in a lopsided smile. “But she whacked me with a parfleche once when I tracked mud into her tipi.”

The softness that came into his face shocked her. He looked as if he took pleasure in the memory of his wife striking him, as though it amused him. “And you didn’t hit her back?”

“It was her tipi—the lodge always belongs to the woman—and I got it dirty. Reckon she was right to cuff me one, don’t you?”

Brianna’s smile was small and sad. “I would never dare yell at my husband, let alone hit him.”

“You don’t have to worry ’bout that no more. And you don’t have to be afraid of me, understand?”

She nodded, but he saw the reservation in her eyes. She still wasn’t sure she could trust him. He sighed and vowed not to let it bother him. She was like a filly he’d bought once just to keep the horse’s owner from flogging the poor animal to death. Winning that filly over had taken him a long time. Patience, tenderness, a gentle hand. Eventually, the young horse had grown into a fine mare. Brianna was worth the effort, he realized, the same as the filly had been.

In the meantime, there were other matters to settle. This close to her he couldn’t think clearly. He moved away to stand with his back to the door and reached inside his shirt for the pouch that held his toothpicks. The taste of the wood was sharp and slightly acrid after the honey of her lips.
Damn! What had she done to him?

“You ready to answer me now?” he said.

“Answer you?”

“Tell me who’s after you.”

Her frustration was nearly as palpable as his. “What makes you think
I’m running away from someone?”

“Could be the way you keep looking over your shoulder,” he said, gnawing his toothpick. “Or the way you were slinking round that store in Jefferson City and almost jumped outta your skin when I came up behind you. Then again, might be the way you looked yesterday when you thought that man was telling me to get my hands off you.”

She stood and began to pace the room like a caged cougar. “Since you can read my mind so well, it’s hardly necessary for me to tell you anything, is it? Who could I be running away from?”

Nigh shrugged. “Looking at you, it’d be mighty hard to swallow, but the law comes first to mind. You rob a bank? Or leave a few unhappy creditors behind? Reckon the sheriff here might have some ideas. Been long enough for word to reach him from St. Louie. If not, he could send out some inquiries.”

Brianna’s restless feet stilled. Panic thrummed in her ears. She could not let him go to the sheriff. Barret may have sent out inquiries about a missing wife. Somehow she had to make Columbus Nigh back down. Drawing herself up to full height, she took a deep breath and tightened her hands into fists at her sides.

“By what right do you make such vile accusations against me, Mr. Nigh? Or even question me? Do I look like a thief to you? Or a welsher?”

The sight of her chin thrust in the air and her eyes pinioning him to the door like a Blackfoot lance pleased him no end. She was magnificent. He swallowed the grin that crept to his lips. In his slow drawl, he said, “No, don’t reckon you do.”

His words stunned her. Her bluff had worked. Pride hummed along her veins as she turned and haughtily walked to the window. “Then I suggest you keep in mind that I hired you to see me to Independence, not to run my life. You have been my employee, nothing more.” Here she faltered, her voice losing some of its hauteur as she added, “Though I had h
oped we were becoming friends.”

She paused and Nigh knew she was waiting, hoping, for him to assure her they were indeed friends. But he was still suffering the sting of her comment regarding the status of their relationship.

After a moment of silence, she stumbled on, “If you are unwilling to escort me to Oregon Territory, I will understand. Independence seems fairly bursting at the seams with men eager to take to the trail. I’m sure I can find one desperate enough for a stake to take the job.”

Since she hadn’t the courage to face him, she did not see his expression, but she heard the low, deadly calm of his voice.

“Reckon you could at that, all right.”

He opened the door and the click of the latch was like a cannon shot in the silent room, riddling her heart as he slipped from the room.

For a long time Brianna stood by the window, seeing nothing and hearing only the faint echoing click of the door closing behind him. Closing her out of his life. Enclosing her in her own private hell. Finally, she took off her cloak and laid it neatly over the back of the chair. She untied her bonnet and set it on top of the cloak. Then she lay down on the bed next to Shakespeare. Drawing the cat into her arms, she buried her face in his warm, pungent fur, and sobbed.

***

Columbus Nigh stormed into the first tavern he saw. The bar was mahogany, so highly polished he could see his image in the dark surface. The whiskers he hadn’t bothered to shave off that morning failed to hide the flush of anger in his lean, angular cheeks. He scowled at the reflection and shouted for a whiskey. Freckles covered the pale skin of the red-haired barman. Nigh watched while the man set a glass on the bar and filled it with golden brown liquid.

“Two bits,” the barman said. “Less’n you want me to leave the bottle. Then it’s a dollar.”

“Leave it.”

The first drink vanished down his gullet like rainwater through a crack. He refilled the glass and turned to stand with his side to the bar, one elbow resting next to the waiting glass.

The tavern wasn’t as crowded as it would be later when a man could call it quits to a day’s work with a clear conscience and let himself relax. Five men sat at a round table playing euchre. They looked as though they’d been at it since yesterday. Others stood at the bar, along with a woman.

Nigh studied her. There was enough rouge on her face to paint an entire tipi, but she wasn’t bad looking and he found the cleavage showing above the low neckline of her dress more than inviting. A woman was exactly what he needed. If he could ease the ache in his loins, maybe he could untangle himself from the infuriating female he’d left at the hotel.

The whore caught his look. Her painted lips spread in a seductive smile as she sashayed over to him.

“You look like a man who needs someone to talk to.” Her voice was low and silky. “Maybe someone who can ease your troubles for a little while, hmm?”

Her perfume preceded her, a heavy, cloying scent as different from Brianna’s rose water as sparrows are to hawks. Good. He needed no reminders of Brianna Villard. The whore’s breath was sweet enough and she appeared cleaner than most; likely had a bath sometime in the past week.

“I’m Angel.” Her painted fingers toyed with the fringe on his sleeve. “Gonna share that bottle with me?”

Angel. Sure you are, he thought. She licked her lips suggestively. He watched her small pink tongue trace the full circle of her heart-shaped mouth and looked down at the plump flesh bulging from the dress front. A half-inch more and her breasts would be rubbing his chest. He swallowed and waited for his body to respond.

“Why not?” He filled the glass and handed it to her. She turned it until she found the moist imprint of his mouth on the rim, and licked it while she gazed up at him. Nigh shifted, knowing any minute now he’d feel his blood begin to hum.

“You a trapper?” She closed the half-inch gap.

“Among other things.”

“Um, like what other things?” she asked in a voice like a July afternoon on the North Platte, sultry and suffocatingly hot. She reached for his hand where it hung limp at his side and set it
on her waist.

He let his hand squeeze her waist, then wander upward. “Hunter, emigrant guide, army scout, translator.” The latter brought a half-smile to his face. “Got a reputation for conversin’ well with Indians, specially squaws.”

“Is that so?” she grinned as his hand moved between them to enclose a ripe breast. Raising her knee beneath her dress, she rubbed her thigh against his crotch. “You do just as well with white women?”

“What do you think?” He lowered his head and kissed her full on the lips. Her tongue stabbed into his mouth in a parody of the sex act, designed to inflame him.

“Um, I’d say you communicate real good, honey,” she purred. “How about we go upstairs and talk some more?”

Dropping his hand to her buttocks, he pulled her close enough to flatten her breasts against his chest and grind his pelvis into hers while he kissed her savagely. Then he drew back. He looked at her a long moment, waiting. Nothing happened. Her breathing was quick and uneven; his was calm. She rubbed herself against him, begging for more. He felt nothing.

“Maybe later, Angel.” He pushed her away gently and picked up the whiskey bottle. “Got other matters to see to right now.”

The silver dollar he tossed down for the bartender spun for a moment, then wobbled and clattered to a halt as he headed for the door. The woman gaped after him, eyes full of disappointment.

Hell, something was wrong with him. He wasn’t so old a whore shouldn’t be able to get an arousal out of him. Yet he had to admit that even with Angel’s lush body pressed to his, he’d felt nothing. It was Brianna. He could still feel the widow’s generous lips beneath his, could still taste her flavor. Damn the woman.

Her employee. The words stuck in his mind like a fresh buffalo chip he couldn’t get off his moccasin. Well, if that was the way she wanted things, fine with him. Let her find someone else to nursemaid her all the way to Oregon Territory. He didn’t need her; that was sure.