Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1) (32 page)

“Holy fuck, and good God a ’mighty,” Stoney said again, scratching his head.
 

“I’ll tell you everything, but I’m begging you to keep my secret. If you can’t, I understand. I’ll ride away and go back to Texas. I won’t ask you to do anything against your conscience.”

“Who said I had a conscience?” Stoney grinned and reached for Barleigh’s hand. “I don’t see any reason I should go blabbing your personal business around. I’ll keep quiet about it. I want to know everything, but first, I want to know how you keep them . . .” He pointed at her chest. “I mean, what do you do with them when. . . . Well, ain’t that something!”
 

“Normally, I keep them tightly bound. I wear baggy boy’s clothes,” she said, feeling overwhelmed with emotion. “Thank you, Stoney, you’re a good friend.” She shook his hand, one firm pump like a man. “Keep your horse at a slow walk back to town. There’s a lot to tell you.”

Stoney picked his sombrero up off the ground, dusted it off, and then sat it on his head, tightening the bolero under his chin. Grinning from ear to ear, he gathered the reins and stepped into the stirrup, saying to himself, “Well, ain’t
them
something!”

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

N
OVEMBER
26, 1860

Hughes Lévesque awoke from a light, troubled sleep to the sound of footsteps in the hall leaving from the room next door, the room that belonged to the Pony Express riders. He’d listened to those quick, sure footsteps before. He knew to whom they belonged.

Slipping out from under the warm covers, Hughes strode to the window and drew back the curtains, watching as Barleigh left on foot, carrying a canteen and heading in the direction of the foothills. He wondered why she was walking. Then, his mind still in the half fog of sleep, he thought of the kisses they’d shared the previous night, of how good her body felt pressed against his, and he wondered why she wasn’t there in his arms—or in his bed.

He shook his head and pounded his fists against his temples, then rubbed his eyes, trying to get his mind straight. He was here to do a job for an old friend—to keep an eye on her daughter—and he’d strayed of course. How’d he let that happen? He’d better rein in that sense of protectiveness before it got him in trouble. But it was a lot more than a sense of protectiveness that he’d felt the night before.
 

When he’d returned to the hotel, a telegraph from Jameson had been waiting for him. It now lay open on his bedside table. Hughes reached for it, reading it again for the fourth time. It was brief, simply stating that Miss Leighselle Beauclaire was near death and that Doc Schmidt was keeping her sedated and peaceful while giving little hope for an optimistic outcome.
 

Hughes threw the telegram in the trash, then sat on the side of the bed, leaning his head in his hands, raking his fingers through his hair. “Fuck.” He pounded his fist on the table.

Feeling restless, his mind unsettled, he paced the floor. On the mantel, the black marble and gold filigree clock ticked away at his thoughts as he walked back and forth between the walls of his room. He inspected his nails, picked at a grain of dirt, and looked again at the telegram crumpled in the waste basket. Sending a reply to Jameson could wait—what he wanted to say couldn’t be said. Yet.
 

Sooner or later, though, he’d have to tell Leighselle he couldn’t continue keeping her secret—if Leighselle didn’t die first.
 

He went to the window and threw it open, breathing in the cool, crisp air, clearing his mind. Feeling caged in, seeing the mountains, he had an urge to be outside. Moments later, Hughes was dressed and out the door.
 

After a stop in the kitchen, he was on his way to the stables. He ran a brush over his mare’s glistening winter coat that had grown thick and dark. He picked up each hoof, inspecting the shoe, then saddled her while she finished her oats.
 

“All right, girl, let’s go for a ride.” He slipped the bridle in place and led her from the stall.

“Morning, Mr. Lévesque,” said Mario as he forked hay into each stall. “Everyone’s out and about early today. Bar took off afoot about an hour ago, then Stoney not too long after him. Now you. Seems everyone wants to leave town this morning. I might as well leave, too. Go someplace warm. Naples . . . or Venice.”

“Good morning, Mario,” said Hughes, swinging up into the saddle. “Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning? Feeling a little homesick, maybe?”

“Italy hasn’t been ‘home’ in a long time. I’m just tired of my toes being cold. That’s all. I hate cold toes. They put me in a sour mood.” Mario leaned against a horse stall, frowning.
 

“I know what you mean, sir. I hate them, too.” Hughes made a mental note to buy Mario a warm pair of socks first chance he got. Then, reining his mare around and out the door, he almost collided head-first into Stoney’s horse.

“Whoa,” Hughes said, drawing back the reins.

Barleigh slid off the back side of Stoney’s gelding, hopping to the ground. “Morning, Hughes. Mario.” She ducked into the barn, grabbed a pitchfork, and then busied herself with filling the remaining empty troughs with hay.

“Morning, Bar,” Hughes said. “Stoney, how are you? All that pie and whiskey last night keep you awake with nightmares?”

“As a matter of fact, sir, I slept like a baby,” said Stoney, dismounting and leading his horse into the barn.
 

“Like a baby, eh,” said Mario, standing in the doorway. “So what’d you do? Cry, then piss and shit the bed? Have fun cleaning that mess up.”
 

“Ain’t you ever the comedian?” Stoney slid the saddle off his horse, setting it on the stand in front of the stall, then looped the bridle over the horn.
 

“Bar, put down that pitchfork and go get some breakfast,” said Mario. “Don’t stray too far. Be ready to jump and ride. Supposed to be urgent mail coming out of California on this run.”
 

“Can I take this run?” Stoney asked. “You don’t have to pay me extra—I just need to get out of here for a while. Clear my head.”

Mario looked at Stoney with a concerned expression. “You all right, son?”

“Fine, sir. I just miss my old eastbound route. I don’t get to run it often enough. Not that it matters—the westbound run is fine, too. You know how it is. A man feels nostalgic every now and then—wants to revisit his beginnings. That all right with you, Bar?” he asked, a grin spreading across his face.

“If that’s what you want to do, Stoney, it’s all right by me,” Barleigh answered.
 

“I’m glad we got that settled,” said Mario, hurrying off with his pitchfork in hand. Then, shouting over his shoulder, “Like I told Bar, Stoney, don’t stray too far. Be ready to jump and ride.”

“I’m headed to the foothills, Bar. I wouldn’t turn down some company,” said Hughes. “Weather this nice in November won’t last long.”
 

Their eyes met for a brief second before she turned away. “I don’t know. I—”

“Go. It’s a pretty day for a ride,” said Stoney. “Here, I’ll resaddle this gelding for you. He’s probably wondering why such a short ride this morning, anyway.”

“I can saddle my own horse, thanks.” Bar led the gelding out of the stall and tied him to the grooming post. “What? You want to treat me like I’m your goddamned little sister?” She spat on the ground, then with her free hand readjusted her crotch. Looking at Hughes, she spat again for good measure.

Stoney gave a nervous laugh and looked from Barleigh to Hughes. “Hey, I didn’t mean nothing. Just offering.”

“What’s got you so riled?” asked Mario, walking back in with a pitchfork full of fresh hay. “I saw you dance and get a kiss from Dorthea last night at the pie-eating contest. You should be in fine spirits this morning.”

“Maybe Bar’s in poor spirits because that’s all he got, a dance and a kiss. That’s still better than what some of us poor bastards went home with. Saddle up. Let’s ride.” Hughes spurred his horse away from the barn, anticipating Barleigh would follow. When he heard the sound of hoofbeats behind him, he eased his mare into a trot, pointing her toward the craggy, snow-capped mountains that flanked the sleeping city.

Silence lingered between them as they rode. The clear air, blue sky, and mild temperature induced a variety of birds into venturing out of their nests, the birds seeming happy to fill the quiet space with chattering and chirping.

As they neared the turn-off for the passage to the secret cave, Barleigh broke their silence. “A dance and a kiss is still better than what some of us poor bastards went home with? What were you expecting to go home with? A kiss you stole from me in a dark alley, which you led me down under unknown pretense—plus what else?”

Hughes threw back his head and laughed. “I was playing along, Miss ‘I can saddle my own horse because I’m not your goddamned little sister’ or whatever it was you said to Stoney. And for the record, I didn’t steal that kiss in the alley. I took it. Taking and stealing are two different things.”

“Oh really? Your semantics lesson impresses me.” Barleigh leaned back in her saddle as the horses began their descent into the canyon, lessening the weight her horse was bearing forward of his withers.

The steep passage into the cave required their precise attention, and conversation was sparse, the snowmelt and refrozen ground creating a treacherous pathway. Rocks and gravel slipped under foot, and both horses dropped their noses to the ground, careful to pick and choose their way to safe footing.

“We should picnic here in the glade instead of in the cave,” said Barleigh, once they reached the hidden clearing. She dismounted and looped the reins over a low-hanging branch.

“Out in the open where you feel safe that I won’t take advantage of you?” Hughes stood next to his mare and studied Barleigh, his amber eyes clouded and dark.
 

Barleigh cocked her head and looked at him, a confused expression on her face.

“I didn’t promise you last night that I wouldn’t want to kiss you. I promised you last night that I wouldn’t kiss you again. I keep my promises.” He turned away, the memory of the telegraph about Leighselle flooding his mind, and he couldn’t look at Barleigh. He kept his promises, all right, even those he hated keeping.

“I meant out in the open where the sky’s so blue and the weather’s fine for a picnic. What’s wrong?” Barleigh stepped forward and put her hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”

He stared at her hand on his arm—wanted to pick it up, to kiss each finger, to not stop there but to kiss her palm, the length of her arm, to kiss his way to her mouth and more. “Yes, I’m all right.”
 

He patted her hand like one would a child’s, then moved it away. “A picnic here in the glade is what we’ll do, then.” Reaching for his saddlebag, he lifted it from behind the cantle, setting it on the ground, removing the contents and arranging the plates and food on the unrolled blanket.

“You sure pack a fancy picnic,” said Barleigh, picking up the linen napkin and the cut crystal glass.

“Growing up in New Orleans, my mother always served a fancy brunch on Sundays, complete with French champagne. She’d splash a little orange juice in it sometimes, for color. Here.” He handed Barleigh a crystal glass, the brush of her finger against his setting his nerves on edge.
 

Barleigh sipped. “Mmm. Wonderful. New Orleans? Is that where you’re from? If you recall me saying last night, my grandfather spent time there.”
 

“I recall a lot about last night.
À votre santé.
” Hughes lifted his glass and sipped. “To your health.”

“
À votre santé.
Are you sure it doesn’t mean ‘let’s change the subject’?”

Hughes smiled at her. “I grew up in New Orleans. My father owns Lévesque Sugarcane and Shipping. He built Lévesque Plantation with the engineering plans from Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello home. Besides sugarcane, he raises thoroughbreds.”

“Tell me more, please.” Barleigh sipped her champagne.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Hughes, refilling their glasses. “Actually, the horses are my mother’s doing. Father
allows
her to raise them. I have a twin brother, John-Pierre, who’s taken over most duties with the businesses. I left New Orleans when I was eighteen or so—became a Texas Ranger. Now, I do certain jobs for the government that no one else will. That’s my story in a nutshell. Now, may we call a truce for the day? You seem angry with me.”

“I’m not angry. I’m nervous that if my secret gets found out and I lose this job—”

“Then what? What’s the worst that could happen?” He handed her a plate. “Sorry, the food is a little sparse.”

“Thank you.” She nibbled on a small piece of smoked bacon. “The worst? I go back to Texas without enough money to pay the taxes on my ranch. Then the bank forecloses and I lose the deed. I told you. I’m not dressing up and pretending to be a boy for the thrill of the masquerade. This is not a game I’m playing.”

“That poker stake you won last night isn’t enough? How’s that cut on your head, by the way?” He reached out to touch it but Barleigh drew back.

“It’s fine, thanks,” she said, pulling away from his touch. “The money helps a great deal, but no, not enough.”

“How much are the taxes? I’ll give you the rest of the money.” Hughes shifted on the blanket and refilled the champagne glasses.
 

“Why? Because you’re a wealthy plantation owner? How many slaves does it take to run a sugarcane and thoroughbred plantation? Do your slaves work at your shipping yards, too?” She downed the remainder of the champagne in one gulp, coughing at the stinging in her throat as it went down.

Hughes leaned back on his elbows, biting his tongue, trying to keep his anger in check. “My father is the owner of Lévesque Sugarcane and Shipping. Don’t judge me based on what you think you know.”
 

He settled a steady gaze on her, clenching and unclenching his jaw at the memory of his father shoving a pocketful of money at him—telling him not to come back. He’d learned more of how to be a man from Okwara, the plantation slave, than from his father.