California Woman (Daughters of the Whirlwind Book 1) (2 page)

Luther Mosby appeared in the doorway of
the Sierra Hotel. He was just a silhouette, but there was no mistaking him.
Still lean in his mid-fifties, he carried himself, stood, and walked as he had
two decades ago. Slightly flexed at the knees, his left arm dangling oddly,
loose and ready to spring. Moving down the wooden sidewalk now, away from the
train—as Esther had directed him to do earlier in the evening—Mosby reminded
her of some lean creature of the wilds.

Breaking his rangy stride, he took out a
pocket watch, noted the time, and began doubling back on this side of Front
Street toward the railroad station.

Mosby stopped suddenly in its shadow.
Esther heard the soft whistling of the railroad watchman, who passed directly
beneath the window beside her, then angled off toward Kennedy's Saloon. When
the watchman was gone, Mosby began walking again, coming straight toward the
train. He stopped opposite the engine, glancing about.

Esther
laughed inwardly. He had reason to be cautious. More than a few persons in
Alta
California, as she was still occasionally
in the habit of calling it, were not beyond shooting or bludgeoning Mosby in
the dark. It was probably the only place any average man would have even a
reasonable chance to compensate for Mosby's ferocious skill with the bowie knife
and derringer he carried. It was a wonder that he had accepted her invitation.
Even at that, she had been forced to reveal factually—and physically—more than
she thought prudent to get him here at this hour.

The Indian woman had taken the message to
Mosby before dinner, a brief note asking him to come to the door of Esther's
suite at eight o'clock. In the dining room of the hotel, Esther calculatedly
sat in profile to Mosby at the next table with her son. Mosby had not missed a
detail of the lustrous dark hair that fell over her shoulders, the full,
tightly clad bosom, slender waist, and curve of calf that was exposed when she
"accidentally" snared her long skirt on a nail in the table leg. She
knew the black clothes, hat, and loose-fitting short veil and black gloves had
not lessened his curiosity. Nor had his awareness that she was "Bull"
Carter's widow. Neither had her frequent glances in his direction, each
punctuated with the slight hint of an admiring smile. Still, it had taken some
doing to persuade him to come.

"I don't know, ma'am," he said,
after she had opened her chain-latched door a crack and suggested the
late-night meeting. "It comes of a sudden, and...and...as you may know,
I'm a recently married man."

"To Miss McDonnell."

"You seem to know a bit about
me."

"I have been an...admirer...of yours
for some time."

"That so?"

"Indeed it is, Mr. Mosby. We
could..." She lapsed into silence and summoned up a suggestive smile.

"Yes?" he said, still guarded.
"What is it we could do? I take it you have something you want to
discuss."

"Not precisely."

"Well, what is it you want of
me?" He glanced up and down the hallway.

"It...it's difficult for me to speak
of it."

"Well, try anyway."

A gust of wind blew the curtains against
the sash with a sudden whisper of sound down near the stairway. Mosby turned to
it smoothly, his right hand going inside his unbuttoned frock coat faster than
she could see it move. He turned back.

"Go on, Mizz Carter."

"It's so difficult." She tilted
her head toward the floor. "I...I...have lusted for you."

He smiled, relaxing a bit. "That
so?"

"From a distance, of course."

"Of course."

"For quite a number of years."

"That's plumb hard to believe,
ma'am. But I'll take your word for it."

"Thank you."

"Most women wouldn't have the
sand."

"I had to speak of it."

"Why is that?"

"The dreams. I can't sleep for
thinking of you. Of the two of us..."

Mosby's eyebrows rose.
"Together?"

"Yes."

Caught by surprise, he coughed
uncomfortably. "Maybe it's a result of your...forgive me, ma'am, your late
husband's untimely death."

"The dreams go back before that.
Before I ever knew William Carter."

"That so?"

"Will you meet me in the private
car?"

"I don't expect I will."

"Please," she whispered.

"What's the matter with right here?
You just open up that door and we'll spend some time together right there in
your rooms. You precedin' me until I've seen no one else is lurkin' about, of
course."

"I can't do that"

"Why not?"

"My son is with me."

"Didn't I see him leave with that
Indian woman?"

"They took a walk. I arranged that
so we could speak. They'll be back shortly."

"I see."

"Will you come? Oh, I feel so
shameful speaking this way."

"Speaking is all you'll have to feel
ashamed about tonight."

"You will not come?"

"No, ma'am. Much as I'm stirred to
by...by..." He could not take his eyes off the swell of her breasts
beneath the dress. "It just don't all come together right enough, bein'
out there in the dark in that railroad car. Anythin' could happen."

"What have you to fear from a woman?
A widow?"

"Nothin'—and everything. Mostly from
someone you might be in league with."

"Who, for heaven's sake?"

"Don't know, ma'am. That's why I'm
goin' to pass on this hand." He started to move away toward the stairs.

"Wait!"

His black moustache bristled.
"Ma'am?"

"We've been...together...before."

He looked at her quizzically.

"At least once," she said.
"A long time ago."

"How can that be? I don't know you.
Never knew no Esther personally, 'cept a little girl back in Charleston. And
you're plainly no Southern girl. Anywise, she was only seven years old."

"This was...twelve or thirteen years
ago," she said. "Fourteen, to be exact. In early 1855."

"Long time. And I'm afraid I don't
remember..."

"It's difficult for me to tell you
where."

"Then that's that." He started
to turn again.

"It was in San
Francisco...at...Arabella Ryan's."

He came close to the door now, rifling
through memories.

"The night of the fire," she
continued. "I've never forgotten the fire—or what took place between us
before the fire started."

"Well, I'll be damned. I certainly
do remember that night. Where'd you disappear to?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Wait a minute. How do I know you're
tellin' the truth? You could have learned about that night from someone.
Arabella had a big mouth."

"How would I know about...?"

"The fire? Anyone could have told
you that."

"Then you won't believe me?"

"It's all too pat, ma'am, beggin'
your pardon. But I've got to cover all the windows." He took a step back
and put on his flat-crowned, Savannah-style hat. "Good night, ma'am. I'm sorry
I can't oblige."

"I can prove it! Come close to the
door."

He paused, looked around. "You move
back a step or two...and keep your hands in plain view."

"My lord, you are suspicious!"
She backed away a yard, and he moved toward the opening, keeping his body
protected by the wide oak doorjamb and peering into the room.

"Be still a moment." He
listened intently for a few seconds. "All right. You said you could prove
you were the woman I was with that night."

"What do you remember most about
our...being together?"

"What I remember best would be
indecent to speak of in a public hallway."

"It was that memorable?"

"It was. Never have...experienced
the likes of it before or after."

She smiled. "Why is that, Mr. Mosby?
You can speak plainly. Just keep your voice down."

"Best way to explain it is that it
wasn't just the woman was the most skillful I've ever met, or the, ah, most
enthusiastic. That's a good deal of it. But there was somethin' else. I went
into Arabella's lookin' for a professional sportin' woman, and this lady,
expert as she was—by which I mean she was a natural, better at...it...than any
professional I'
ve
been...entertained
by...before or since—there was somethin' different about her. Down deep I knew
she wasn't a professional at all."

"And what do you remember about her
physically—I mean, what did she look like?"

"She was a strange one. Wore a hat
and a veil and long velvet gloves." He paused again. "Like...you do.
Like...you're wearing now...the whole time. 'Cept, of course, they wasn't black."

"They were deep lavender."

Mosby's mouth dropped open.

Esther didn't wait for him to comment.
"Did she have any identifying marks on her body? I take it she was
unclothed except for the hat, veil, and gloves."

"She was. Marks. Let me see. Yes, I
recollect she had a pale strawberry, a birthmark, down deep...excuse me,
ma'am."

"Go on." Esther began to
unbutton her dress.

"She had a strawberry down deep in
the cleft of her bosom. So pale you could hardly see it."

Esther peeled the top of the dress down
over her waist. "On which side?" She began unfastening her
undergarments.

"The...left, I believe." His
pulse quickened.

"Did
it look like this one?" Esther said, smiling as he stood there, mouth
agape, licking at his lips, one pale blue eye peering with awe through the
cracked door at her still firm, slightly oversized chest.

Now Esther heard the faint sound of
Mosby's boot grind against the forward stairway to the private car as he put
one foot up, then waited, holding on to the railing and looking up and down the
length of the train. He stood there for a moment, listening in a stillness so
deep the slightest sound within shooting range would have betrayed anyone's
presence. He holstered the derringer under his arm, checked the knife in the
sheath stitched inside his right boot, and climbed up to the door of the car.

"Your eyes will adjust to the
darkness in a few minutes," Esther said, once he had stepped inside. He
moved swiftly to a spot behind one of the stuffed chairs and crouched.

"I can see just fine. What's behind
that curtain?"

"See for yourself." Esther
stood up and pulled the fabric aside. "You have nothing to fear. Did you
honestly think I would want anyone else to know we are alone here together,
with my husband scarcely a month in his grave?"

He moved closer and looked over her
shoulder into the rear end of the car. "I reckon not," he said,
easing her aside and quickly inspecting the sleeping area, the kitchen, and the
lavatory. "It's my nature to be mistrustful." He stepped back to
where she'd taken a position at the foot of the brass bed, and looked under it.
"I did some figurin
'
after
we spoke. I don't mean to sound big-headed..."

"But this has happened before, with
other women?"

"Yes. Never have been able to figure
out why."

"Why, it's simple. You're a fine
figure of a man, and more than that, women are attracted to men who look like
they're capable of violence."

Mosby shifted uneasily.

"Raw animal power...So few men have
it."

"Well, I don't know about
that," Mosby said, uncomfortable though he savored every word. "But I
do know you must've enjoyed that night at Arabella's near as much as I did. And
want it again, for whatever reasons. So I reckon I believe you. Only thing is,
I can't figure out why you waited so long."

"There are many reasons, Mr. Mosby..."

"Might as well call me
Luther..."

"But they can wait. There will be
opportunity enough for all that. We needn't waste any time now. Why don't
you...get undressed?"

Esther slipped out of everything but the
veiled hat and long gloves. She forced herself not to stare at Mosby's left
arm. Slightly but noticeably smaller than the right, it was encased at the
elbow by a notched, leather brace. Above and below the belted, sweat-darkened
supporter, an ugly ladder-like scar ran from the bottom of his biceps to the
middle of his forearm, snaking ropy white across the point of his elbow. She
knew how he had suffered when he had sustained the deep gash, and the thought
pleased her. Her gaze drifted upward across his back, where a burn scar,
pebbled and two inches wide, extended from one shoulder to the other. As he
turned, the memory of the night he had been burned steeled her for what was
about to happen.