Natchez Flame (4 page)

“I like my women with a little more meat on their bones—or hadn’t you noticed?”

“I noticed, darlin’. Believe me, I noticed.” She laughed then, throaty and rich, her red-rouged mouth generous and smiling. He remembered the things she had done with that mouth the night before.

Unwillingly, he glanced at Priscilla Wills. In her modest high-necked dress, she stood ramrod straight, staring down the road in the opposite direction.
Christ, what a priss she was.
Still, she had the smoothest skin he had ever seen, and the prettiest pale pink mouth. Her waist was so tiny he could span it with his hands, and her fingers were graceful and feminine.

So what if her breasts were too small and her hips most likely the shape of a slender young boy’s?

“What are you lookin’ at?” Patsy demanded, following the line of his gaze and snapping him out of his thoughts.

Brendan turned back to Patsy, winked at her and grinned. “Just thinkin’ how much woman you are, Sugar. You keep it warm for me till I get back.”

“You got it, honey.”

Brendan left her then and returned to the lady in the street, whose face had flushed a shade far pinker than her lips. When he offered her his arm, this time she ignored it.

“I find your taste in women and your vulgar street talk as appalling as the rest of your bad habits. I hope you’ll try to restrain yourself at least until your return.”
Stiff-backed, she started marching down the street.

“I’ll do my best,” he assured her, “not that it’s any of your business.”

The lady didn’t comment, just held her head high and kept on walking. Brendan watched the movement of her hips beneath the full dimity skirts of her prim dove-gray traveling dress. With a practiced eye he assessed the thickness of her petticoats over the curve of her behind and found himself smiling. Slender yes. But boyish—he was beginning to wonder.

The smile slid from his face. Wondering about Stuart Egan’s intended was the last thing he needed. He’d better keep his breeches buttoned up and his thoughts as far from that subject as he could get them.

And he intended to do just that.

Trask held open the low wooden door, and two men carried Priscilla’s trunks into the tiny inside cabin. Mr. Hennessey had indeed booked her passage, as well as that of the traveling companion Stuart assumed would accompany her. But even if he hadn’t, Priscilla believed Trask would have seen to it. Once he’d made up his mind to help her, the man took charge as if born to command. She wasn’t quite sure she liked it. Then again, she
had
asked for his assistance.

“I’ll check on you later,” he said as the crewmen set down her trunks and walked back outside, “after you get settled in.”

“I’ll be fine.”

With a grunt that summed up his feelings on that
subject, Trask walked down the narrow passage toward the ladder that led to the deck.

Sometime later Priscilla climbed that same ladder and went to stand at the rail. The sea looked frothy as it swept beneath the gray-painted hull, the water an odd shade of green. With the help of a harbor tug, the small ship steamed from the dock right on schedule, but the minute they reached the open seas, Priscilla’s stomach began to churn. She had always hated boats of any kind. Aboard the
Orleans
, she had been sick off and on though the sea had been flatter than one of Aunt Maddie’s doilies.

Feeling the wind against her cheeks, watching the seabirds and listening to the muted roar of the engines, Priscilla thought of her late aunt with a surprising jolt of sadness. She could still see Aunt Maddie’s bloodless face as she lay in her coffin, serene in death as she never had been in life. It was one of the few times Priscilla could remember that she had been in the same room with her aunt without receiving one of her lectures.

The scoldings were so commonplace, Priscilla had learned to listen without really hearing. She would smile and nod and say “Yes, Aunt Maddie,” while her mind drifted a million miles away.

She’d be thinking about the black-and-white puppy who had followed her home from the market—though her aunt had strictly forbidden her to let it into the house—or the little girl with the long blond curls who had smiled at her so sweetly down at the bookstore. She had always loved children. One day, she had vowed, she would have a child of her own.

Several drops of water landed lightly on her cheek
and Priscilla looked up at the sky. The fluffy white clouds she had spotted sometime earlier had thickened and turned as gray as the hull. Her stomach rolled in warning.

Merciful heaven, please don’t let me get seasick.
She could just imagine Trask’s look of disdain if he knew how close she had come to disaster aboard the
Orleans.
She’d been barely able to eat, her skin pallid and her stomach queasy. If the seas grew rough, she was certain to disgrace herself.

Fortunately, for the time being, Trask had gone down to the main salon with some of the men to play poker. Though his gambling galled her no end, Priscilla had remained silent. What Trask did with his time aboard ship was really none of her business. Besides, she needed his help to reach Stuart, and she didn’t want to chance his anger. So far he’d been a perfect gentlemen—much to her surprise—but she didn’t doubt his capacity for violence; she’d seen that first-hand. Priscilla didn’t want to find herself on the receiving end.

Several more raindrops fell, and Priscilla faced the inevitable need to go below. Though her stomach already protested, she’d have the steward bring her a tray and force herself to eat supper. After a good night’s sleep she’d feel better, she was sure. In just five days she’d be on dry land again. Surely she could survive until then.

“Three aces beats my three jacks. You win again, Trask, you lucky bastard.”

It’s hardly a matter of luck
, Brendan thought, raking in his winnings, big Texas currency not yet exchanged
for U.S. dollars, Spanish
reales
, and shiny gold eagles. The three men sitting across from him through the tobacco smoke were obviously city gents, as easy to read as the naive little lady tucked away below decks.

“I’m out.” Nehemiah Saxon, a thin-faced, balding man in a rumpled brown sack coat slid back his chair. The ship dropped into a trough, and the man stumbled a little before he could get to his feet.

“Too rich for my blood,” said the rotund merchant named Sharp, who chomped noisily on his fat black cigar. “Think I’ll go topside afore this storm gets any worse and get a little fresh air.”

“I will stay in,” said the big German farmer lounging against the back of his squat oak chair. Walter Goetting was by far the shrewdest of the lot. If he hadn’t played poker much before, he was certainly catching on quickly.

Brendan silently saluted his growing expertise and vowed to watch him a little more closely. Accepting a slim cheroot that the big German offered, Brendan cupped his hand against the flame and lit up. Though tobacco was the one bad habit he had yet to acquire, he relaxed with an occasional cigar.

“Mind if I sit in?” The gruff male voice cracked across the sparsely furnished room, and Brendan swung his eyes toward a beefy man in a sweat-stained red-checkered shirt and fringed buckskin breeches.

“There’s two seats open.” Brendan blew out a plume of smoke. “Trask’s the name.” he extended his hand, and the beefy man shook it.

“Badger Wallace.” His grip was solid, just like the man himself.

Brendan kept the smile carefully fixed on his face. “Badger Wallace. I’ve heard the name. Texas Ranger, if I’m not mistaken.”

“That’s right.” Wallace turned his chair around backwards and settled himself astride it. The other men introduced themselves and the game started up again.

“Trask,” Wallace repeated, rolling the name around his mouth, which was barely visible beneath his thick black handlebar mustache. “Wouldn’t be Brendan Trask, would it?”

“Might be,” Brendan evaded, drawing on the cigar to give himself some time. “How do you know Trask?”

“Never met the fella, but I heard tell he’s a real good man with a gun. Friend of mine fought with him against the rebels down on the Yucatán.”

“What friend is that?” Brendan asked, feeling a little less wary.

“Fella named Camden. Tom Camden. He’ll be joinin’ us sooner or later. Never could resist a good game of cards.”

Brendan grinned and leaned back in his chair. “Tom Camden. How the hell is he? Figured he’d be dead and buried by now, crazy as he is with that pistol he totes.”

“Did take a bullet in the shoulder a ways back,” Badger drawled, “didn’t slow him down much.”

“Nothing slows Tom Camden down.”

Badger spit out a wad of tobacco, missing the brass cuspidor on the floor near the wall by a good
two feet. He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “Same as he says about you.” He tossed his floppy-brimmed hat at the line of oak pegs mounted near the door, missed, and it slid to the floor. “Pleased to meet ya, Trask,” he said. “Now let’s play cards.”

Brendan relaxed and picked up the hand he’d been dealt. The rangers hadn’t yet heard about the shooting in the Indian Territory. If his luck held out, maybe they never would. He wondered what Priscilla would say about his “kind eyes” if she knew Barker Hennessey wasn’t the first man he’d killed—or even the second. But then, she didn’t look like a fool, just far too trusting, and way too naive.

He felt the ship lurch sideways as the fury of the storm increased, and crushed out his cheroot. The
Windham
wasn’t really a passenger steamer—there weren’t that many passengers traveling to Corpus Christi these days. Not since General Taylor and his troops had pulled out five months ago.

Brendan had heard the place looked like a ghost town with all the buildings empty. They had sprung up nearly overnight to house the hangers-on, gamblers, and scoundrels who chased after the gold in the soldiers’ pockets.

Now Taylor had headed south to fight the Mexicans.

Unconsciously Brendan rubbed the scar on his upper left arm. He’d done his share of fighting back in forty-one. After a two-year stint in the Texas Marines, he’d taken a musket ball in a battle on the Yucatan. The wound had been bad and he’d damn near died—
would have if one of his comrades in the Mexican prison outside Campeche hadn’t helped him.

Brendan thought of Alejandro Mendéz and, as always, something painful constricted inside his chest.

“It is your turn to bet,
Herr
Trask,” the German reminded him.

Damn.
He’d better start paying attention or he’d lose his winnings and then some. He made his wager, a conservative bet this time, and glanced at the round brass ship’s clock screwed to the bulkhead across from the table. Nearly time for supper. He’d check on Priscilla, take her in to dinner if he had to, then, as much as possible over the next five days, he’d leave her alone.

Against his will, he thought of her slender curves and luscious pink mouth. He remembered her dainty waist, and found himself speculating on the size of her breasts. He wondered what her hair looked like, freed from her bonnet.

“You lose, Trask.” Badger Wallace chuckled as Brendan flipped over his cards. “Maybe Tom’ll do all right, after all.”

“Tom Camden never won a hand of cards in his life,” Brendan grumbled. He’d been traveling with the lady below decks for less than eight hours and already she was causing him trouble. He’d damn well see to it she didn’t get a chance to cause him more.

“Time for supper, Miss Wills,” Trask called through the door to her cabin, rapping his knuckles lightly against the heavy wood.

Priscilla clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from throwing up. “I … I’m not hungry just yet.”

“Whatever you say.” Relief rang in his voice. “I’ll have someone bring you down a tray.”

“Thank you.” Just the thought of food sent Priscilla running for the chamber pot again. Forehead beaded with perspiration, she forced herself to hold on until Trask’s footfalls receded, then she bent over and emptied the contents of her stomach for the sixth time in the past three hours.

Dear God in heaven, don’t let Trask find out.
She prayed that the seas would calm and that she would start feeling better. Lying down on her narrow berth, Priscilla closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but a fresh bout of nausea forced her back to the chamber pot. How would she survive five days of this torture?

With shaky fingers, she wiped her face with a damp linen towel, then worked the buttons at the front of her dress, thankful they weren’t out of reach. Once she’d removed her horsehair petticoats, she freed the laces of her corset, no small task, took off her chemise and pantalets, and pulled on a clean cotton nightshirt. Then the ship lurched into a trough, and Priscilla felt her stomach lurch right along with it. After another harsh round of vomiting, she climbed wearily back into her narrow bunk.

Priscilla heard the knocking at her door and roused herself from her heavy-lidded slumber.

“Steward, Miss Wills,” a now familiar voice said. “I’ve got tonight’s supper tray.”

Priscilla swallowed the bile that instantly rose in
her throat. “I … I’m not hungry yet,” she called through the door. “But I thank you for your trouble.”

“You sure you’re feeling all right?” His voice sounded garbled through the thick plank boards of the door.

“I … I’m fine,” she lied. “I’ll go down to the salon and get something later.” She’d been telling him that for the past three days. Telling the same thing to Trask, whenever he came to her door, which wasn’t that often. She guessed he believed her, because he always seemed relieved.

In truth, she’d been lying on her berth, barely able to move, so weak she did little besides vomit and drift back to sleep. The room smelled so foul she wouldn’t even let the steward in—she’d clean it herself, she vowed, just as soon as she felt able.

Lulled by the vibrations of the steamship’s engines, Priscilla shifted on the berth, and her hand brushed the book of Robert Burns’s poems she had tried unsuccessfully to read. She lifted the small leather-bound volume, but her hand shook so hard she dropped it on the floor. It was stifling in the airless little cabin, and the smell of her own sickness nearly overwhelmed her.