hands on his hips. “Did I hear you right? Aren’t you forgetting who’s in charge, and why?”
“Damn you, Slag,” Rinson said.
Slag wouldn’t look Victor Gore in the face. Abruptly as meek as a lamb, he said quietly, “All right. I forgot. I’m sorry, Gore. I lost my temper when he hit me. It won’t happen again.”
“It better not.”
Fargo was dumfounded. Slag wasn’t the sort to back down to any man, yet here he was, cowed by a man twice his age, a man he could break as easily as he could snap a twig. Something was going on here, something more than met the eye. But what? he wondered.
Gore wheeled on him. “And you, sir. Do I have your word as well? Will you behave yourself?”
It galled Fargo to be treated like a ten-year-old. “I won’t cause trouble if your men don’t.”
“Very well. Mr. Slag, to give you time to cool down, you will ride night herd the first two hours. Mr. Perkins will relieve you. The rest of you, go about your chores. And Mrs. Winston, I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of inviting Mr. Fargo to dine with us. Is that all right?”
“It’s fine,” the farmer’s wife said, but she sounded dubious.
Fargo tied the Ovaro to a rear wheel of their wagon. As he did, a hint of lilac tingled his nose. He asked without turning, “Are you upset with me, too?”
“Not at all,” Rachel said, stepping to one side. She had her hands clasped behind her back, which accented the swell of her bosom. “I thought you were magnificent.”
Fargo chuckled. “I’ve been called a lot of things but never that.” Leaning against the wheel, he let his gaze rove from her toes to her nose. “But now that you mention it, you’re pretty magnificent yourself.”
Predictably, Rachel blushed. “No, I’m not. I’m ordinary. And please don’t look at me that way. You look as if you want to eat me alive.”
“I do.”
Rachel gasped and turned away, but turned right back again. “You make my ears burn.”
“Just your ears?”
“Mr. Fargo, for a gentleman you are positively scandalous. My parents wouldn’t approve.”
“When did I ever claim to be a gentleman?” Fargo rejoined. “I’m a man and I like women. That’s all there is to it.”
“Oh, my. Surely you’re not—” Rachel glanced about them, then lowered her voice. “Surely you’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”
“That I’d like to go for a walk with you tonight? That’s exactly what is on my mind.”
“You’re too bold, sir.”
“Are you going to stand there and tell me you haven’t been with a man before? How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-two,” Rachel said stiffly. “And whether I have or I haven’t is none of your business.”
“Which means you have. Do your folks know?”
Rachel’s mouth dropped, but she quickly recovered her composure and leaned in so near she practically brushed him. “You might not be a gentleman, but I’m a lady and ladies don’t discuss such things.”
“I’m surprised you’re not married yet, as good-looking as you are,” Fargo said. Most women found themselves at the altar before they were twenty. Any later than that, and people started to whisper about spinsters and strange desires.
“Do you really think so?” Rachel touched her hair, then frowned and said, “Quit doing that.”
“What?”
“Complimenting me. I’m trying to be mad at you and you make it very hard.”
“Then we’re even.”
“How so?”
“When I look at you, part of me starts to feel hard, too.”
Again Rachel gasped. Her eyes darted down, below his belt, and then up again. “That was crude.”
Fargo laughed. “You looked, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know what to make of you. I honestly don’t.”
“I’ll help you out,” Fargo said. “I want to go for a walk and do things to you that will curl your toes. Was that gentlemanly enough?”
“You presume too much,” Rachel said, but she didn’t look away or blush, or leave.
“If I’m wrong, then don’t go for a walk with me. But if I’m right, I’ll meet you at the back of your wagon, say, about ten. It will be dark enough by then that we can slip away.”
“Amazing,” Rachel said. “You’re too sure of yourself, by half. Women can’t wait to rip your clothes off—is that how it goes?” She sniffed, and turned. “I need to help my mother. Don’t expect to see me at ten.”
Fargo watched her hips sway in exaggerated anger. “Things are looking up,” he said to the Ovaro.
From under the covered wagon came a scraping noise.
Squatting, Fargo found Billy about to crawl off. He grabbed hold of the back of the youngster’s shirt and hauled him out. “I don’t much like being spied on, boy.”
“It’s not my fault,” Billy said defensively. “I was under there when you and Sissy came up.”
“Then you heard everything?” Fargo could see him running to his parents, and his parents throwing a fit.
“So what if I did? I don’t care what my sister does. Besides, as Ma keeps telling her, she’s a grown woman and can do as she pleases.”
“You’re not mad at me?”
“For wanting to kiss my sister?” Billy laughed. “I was brought up on a farm, remember? I’ve seen cows do it. I’ve seen horses do it. Heck, I even saw two mallards in the pond do it. To me, you and Sissy are those ducks.”
Fargo grinned. He had never been compared to a randy mallard before. “You have a good head on your shoulders, boy.”
Billy laughed. “You don’t fool me. You want me to be your friend so I won’t tell Ma and Pa about your plans for tonight.”
“Like I said, you have a good head on your shoulders.”
“I also have empty pockets.” Billy held out a hand. “A dollar will fill one of them just fine.”
“You little outlaw.”
“I could ask for two dollars.”
Fargo snorted. “The most I’ll give you is fifty cents.”
Billy waggled his palm. “Didn’t you say she’s awful pretty? A dollar ain’t much. And you have to promise to keep her out as late as you can.”
“What for?”
“Sissy has some chocolate hid in the wagon. I’ve been trying to find it for weeks but she’s never away from the wagon for very long.”
Fargo fished a coin from his pocket, flipped it into the air and caught it, then dropped it in the boy’s palm. “If I see your face on a wanted poster in a few years, it won’t surprise me.”
6
It had been a while since Fargo had home cooking, even if the cooking was done over a fire on the trail.
Martha Winston was a quiet woman. She didn’t say a lot, and when she did, she said what was on her mind with no hemming and hawing. Lester was lucky in that she wasn’t one of those women who talked a man to death. Doubly lucky, because she could cook. The food was delicious.
Supper consisted of thick venison steak, with salt if Fargo wanted some. Martha also heaped fried potatoes, cooked carrots and a couple of slices of bread smeared thick with butter on his plate. Saratoga chips were brought from the wagon and Fargo helped himself to a handful. For dessert there were cookies. She had made them days ago, and she didn’t stint on the sugar. To wash it all down, Fargo was told to drink as much steaming hot coffee as he wanted. He downed six cups.
The meal alone almost made all that Fargo had gone through worth it.
After supper hour came the social hour. Other farmers and their wives came over to talk to the Winstons.
