Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1) (28 page)

“You didn’t. You sounded matter-of-fact. And private. Now, you should eat. I have in my bag some honey bread and smoked ham. More water—don’t set that canteen down. Drink up.”

“Do you always sound like that?” Barleigh asked, drinking more water.

“Like what?” Hughes reached back into the duffle bag and took out two plates, arranging the food, napkins, and silverware as if they were dining in a fine restaurant.

“Matter-of-fact and dictatorial.” She picked up the silver fork with gold filigree trim and twirled it between her fingers, then placed it back down on the embroidered linen napkin that lay tucked next to the small pewter plate with a stamped coat of arms at its center.
 

Hughes paused and looked at her, seeming to study her face in the beam of sunlight. “You’ve cat-like eyes, but blue. Very blue. And very feminine. No wonder you kept them cast down. It’s part of your disguise, your act,” he said. “It’s no wonder. Your eyes might betray you.”

Like Hughes’s eyes might betray him—another private thought she would keep to herself.
 

“So you consider me dictatorial? I prefer ‘commanding,’ or ‘take charge.’”

“I can take charge of myself,” she said, her voice taking on a defensive tone.

“I can see that. You’re a brave young lady,” he said, sitting back and folding his arms around his bent knees. “May I ask you, though, why you’re doing something that’s impossible to sustain long term, this masquerade of yours, and is reckless, dangerous, and foolhardy?”

“Reckless, dangerous, and foolhardy?” Barleigh bristled. “You wouldn’t use those words to describe a man in this role. You’d call him daring, valiant, and heroic.”
 

“But you’re not a man.”

“And it hasn’t mattered.”

“You put yourself in harm’s way every time you race off with that goddamned mochila. Pardon my language. Don’t you realize the risk you take? Men have died doing what you’re doing.” Hughes’s voice deepened, his eyes darkened. “Take those words seriously.”
 

“Mr. Lévesque, you don’t know me or know anything about my life. You’ve no right to question me about the risks I take or what I realize or don’t realize.” She pushed the plate away and stood up, arms folded across her chest, pacing, irritated, and incredulous.

“What’s your name?” Hughes stood up, placing a hand on her arm. He knew her name was Barleigh Alexandria Henrietta Flanders—he knew more about her than she knew herself—but he had to get her to tell him. “Stop pacing like a damned caged cat. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to rile you. What’s your name?”

“Excuse me?” She stood with her arms still a barrier across her chest.

“Your name. Is Bar Flanders your real or your pretend name?”

“Barleigh. Barleigh Flanders. I shortened it to Bar.”

“Miss Barleigh Flanders, you became a Pony Express rider by your daring horsemanship and bravery. I didn’t mean to sound dismissive of your skills or capabilities. You’ve proven yourself equal to the task. But, if you were my girl, if you were my little sister, I would never allow—I would do everything in my power to dissuade you from such dangerous activities.”
 

With hands fisted on hips, she tilted her chin to look Hughes square in the eye. “I’ve done my job just as well as any Pony Express rider. I haven’t shirked my duties once. I’m accepted. No one questions that I’m
not
a boy. I’m not a childish girl playing dress-up and make-believe for the thrill of a silly little game. I
need
this job.”

A surprising urge to cry came from deep within. She took shaky breaths, trying to swallow it away. All of the reasons why she was here, and all of the reasons why she shouldn’t be here, conflicted, grating against her emotions.
 

“Hey now, come here. It’s all right. I swore to you that your secret is safe with me. I’m the best keeper of secrets—”

“—I’ll ever need. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying. I hate crying when there’s no reason.”

“It’s not what I’d call a full-blown cry. Just one tiny little leak right here.” He wiped her cheek with his thumb. “There, the leak is fixed.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lévesque.”

“Hughes.”

“Hughes. Thank you. Please call me Barleigh, but only here, only today.”

“Barleigh. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there is one tiny little thing that might give your secret away, that you’re
not
a boy.”

“What’s that?” she sniffed, wiping at her eyes.

“If you ride back into town smelling like a perfumery, someone’s bound to raise an eyebrow.” He looked at her, one eyebrow raised in comical fashion. “Lilac and lavender are not the scents of Pony Express riders. Take your shirt off. I’ll be right back.”

“I beg your pardon?” She stiffened and looked at him wide-eyed.

“Just your shirt.” He waved his hand around, up and down in front of her, chest level. “Leave all of your under-bindings on.”

“So you didn’t see anything but a shady, shadowy silhouette ’cause it’s more dark than light in here.” Barleigh felt the beginnings of a blush again but began unfastening her shirt. “Where are you going?”
 

But he was already gone.

Hughes returned with a handful of pine cones and a few small branches, then built a fire on the floor of the cave below the crevasse. He boiled water, making a strong smelling tea with the tarry pine needles, adding thin flakes carved from the bar of oily saddle soap he had fished from his traveling bag.

“Come here,” he said, “and let me smell you.”

She laughed out loud.

“I’m serious,” he said, looking at her, waiting. “Is the smell in your hair, or on your skin, or both? Can we fix it with just a shampoo, or will you need a complete scrubbing down?”

Hesitating a moment, she walked over to the fire and stood under the beam of sunlight. “Ready for inspection, sir.” She held out her arms and held her breath.

Hughes moved around and stood behind her, inches from her body. He leaned in close, grazed his nose along the curve of her neck, inhaling, and then along the other side, breathing in and out. The silky fine hairs at the base of her neck fluttered from the warm puffs of his breath against her skin.

She swayed.
Oh. My. Steady on your feet
.
 

With his large hands, he scrunched them in her hair, burying his face, breathing in. He ran his nose along the outside of each arm to the tips of her fingers, turned over the palm to trace back up the inside of her elbow, up and over each shoulder, then followed down, down along the centerline dip and curve of her back, stopping short where her unbelted trousers hung loose on her hips.

He placed his hands on Barleigh’s waist, turning her around to face him. “My dear,” he said, his voice deep and husky, “the verdict is in.”

“Yes?”
Breathe.
 

“I detect only a faint trace of floral scent on your skin. But, your hair is something else. Your hair smells—marvelous. That problem needs fixing.” He turned and walked to the pool.

“All right. What do you need me to do?” She tingled where merely his breath brushed her skin.

“Lay down here on your back with your head over the pool, yes, like that. I’ll wash your hair with this pine tea and saddle soap. It won’t smell as pretty as lilac and lavender, but smelling pretty isn’t what
Bar
needs.”
 

Hughes rolled up his sleeves, kneeling beside the pool, cupping her head in one hand, running the warm mixture through her hair with the other, massaging it into her scalp and pulling it through the short length of her hair.

By holding the weight of her head in his hands and washing her hair, that one act, bonded his word and his oath. Relaxation melted through Barleigh. She closed her eyes. She imagined him holding also in his hands the secrets and dreams and thoughts and desires swimming around in her head. And the fears. His hands would not let them go but would keep them safe, protected, buoyant, free to float where destiny’s winds blew them.
 

What is it about Hughes Lévesque, she wondered, that made her feel as if she’d known him all her life—and longer?
 

His bare arm, wet and soapy, slid against her cheek, against her forehead, and she felt a warm stirring in the pit of her stomach that slipped down lower. Every nerve tingled, every sensation multiplied as his strong hands and long fingers scrubbed her scalp, washed her hair, and helped to put her disguise back into place.
 

“We can finish eating while we wait for your hair to dry,” Hughes said, patting her head with the towel. “I have another canteen with some honeyed whiskey, now that you’re feeling better. It’ll thicken your blood for the ride back to town.”

“That sounds nice,” she said, taking the towel from him, rubbing her head with vigorous strokes. “I’ve always thought I needed thickened blood. While we’re waiting, you can tell me what a Texas Ranger is doing in Salt Lake City in Utah Territory via Saint Joseph, Missouri?”

Hughes picked up a long pine needle from the floor of the cave and scraped at the dirt under his nails. “Barleigh. I’ll say your name a lot, since I can
only
say it here. Barleigh, there’s not much to tell.”

“I don’t believe that. Tell me something about yourself that others don’t know,” she said, laying the towel aside.

“What? You shared your secret, now I share mine?” Hughes inspected his nails and flicked the used pine needle away.

“Yes, something like that.” She sipped the honeyed whiskey from the pewter cup with the matching coat of arms as the plate and studied his profile over the flickering fire, thinking he looked as much like a lion as he did a wolf. “You have secrets, don’t you,” she said as a statement.

Hughes held her gaze for a long moment, the light from the fire dancing in his eyes. Barleigh wished she knew what he was thinking—what secrets he carried in his eyes. He looked away, careful to keep them to himself, his own private thoughts.
 

“All right,” he said after a pause, “give me your lady’s word and swear an oath on your Pony Express Bible that the dark secret I reveal to you will travel no further than the mouth of this cave.”

She raised her right hand and composed a serious expression. “I swear an oath on my Pony Express Bible and give you my word to keep your secret.”

Hughes took a deep, dramatic breath. “I’m deathly afraid of spiders. I hate them, every eight, horrible little leg, all creepy, crawly, and crunchy when you step on them.” He shuddered.

“That’s not fair.” Barleigh threw her empty cup at him, tried to pull down a pout, but her mouth gave way to a grin.

“You’re right, that’s not fair. I should share a secret bearing equal weight to the one you’ve shared.” His look was serious.

“That’s the honorable thing to do.” She was open to the seriousness of his tone.

“Yes, and I’m nothing if not honorable.” He settled a steady gaze on her, as if calculating the odds on a poker game. “I
am
a Texas Ranger, currently inactive. Mostly, I work for the federal government. Clandestine operations. There’s a group of Southern sympathizers conspiring to censor the U.S. mail. Their special interest is the westbound mail to California. I’m working undercover to see what can be done about it.”

“Is the Pony Express mail at risk of—”

“—of being diverted or tampered with? Yes. That’s one of the reasons why I’m here.”

“One of the reasons?” she asked, her interest piqued. “What’s the other?”

“Ah, don’t be greedy. One secret per customer per day. Barleigh.” His voice adopted a sensual quality, soft yet masculine.
 

He smiled and steadied his piercing amber eyes on her. Barleigh knew the futility of resisting his silent command to not look away.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

N
OVEMBER
16, 1860

Journal entry: We rode back to the city together after Hughes shared the rest of his meal with me in the cave. But that’s all he shared. Mr. Lévesque holds his cards close to his chest and reveals little. He told nothing else about himself except that he is indeed a Texas Ranger taking leave to work for the Government to discover who’s attempting to tamper with the mail.

I have a strong intuition, however, that his mission is more involved than that of a singular assignment of discovery.
 

I’ve promised to tell no one, and I shall keep my promise as I expect him to keep his. I feel I can trust him, though I don’t know why. I hardly know him. But, I have no choice other than to do so. His cover is that he is a wealthy businessman in town scouting out investment opportunities. He plays the wealthy part with comfort and ease.

Amusing, both of us incognito. He as a businessman. Me as a boy. I wonder which requires the biggest leap of the imagination.
 

The Salt Lake House is the only fine hotel west of the Mississippi, so Mr. Lévesque has taken a room on the second floor next door to the room kept for the Pony Express riders. This arrangement might prove useful to both of us as we discussed on our ride into town. We can keep an eye out for the other’s best interest.

“Well, ain’t that something,” was Stoney’s expected reply when we ran into him as he was flying down the stairs on his way out the door for his east-bound mail run, short brimmed hat in hand. Stoney reminded me again to keep an eye on his sombrero, to not let Mario throw it away. I promised him I would.

Keeping my mind focused and on task will require an extra amount of vigilance. I don’t know why, but thinking about Hughes sleeping in the next room from where I sleep stirs me. It’s good that there is a wall in between—a barrier—a physical reminder that I must keep to myself. Although, I might be tempted to press my ear to the wall to discover what sounds a man makes when he’s alone and thinks no one is listening.

Next weekend is the Harvest Festival, a full day Saturday of sharing food and feeding the poor. There’ll be pie-eating contests, yard games for the children, a quilting exhibition, a butter churning contest, and a barn dance in the evening. The festivities end Sunday with a day of giving thanks for all our blessings and for our bounty, the 25th of November, exactly one month until Christmas.