The Endless Sky (Cheyenne Series) (22 page)

      
Then the thought struck her like a lightning bolt. What if he had never found his Cheyenne family—or worse yet, what if they had all been herded onto reservations to die like those poor Sioux she had been nursing at the fort? What despair he would be feeling, already cut off forever from the Remingtons, and now his father's people lost to him as well.

      
Her heart ached, wanting to run to him and embrace him, to offer her love, her comfort. Yet she could do nothing of the sort. She was married. If he knew she was Hugh Phillips's wife, a man who had spent years hunting down and killing Indians, Chase would despise her…and she could not blame him.

      
Tears swam in her eyes, blurring her vision. She wiped them away impatiently. “What am I to do? Can I simply let him ride away again?” The answer of her conscience squeezed her heart in pain.

      
But she could not let go of the old dream so easily. Her mind churned, thinking of the way he had talked back there, like an illiterate. Why?

      
She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and repaired her tear-streaked face, then stepped back into the street with a new resolve. She would make discreet inquiries where this Asa the Osage stayed, then attempt to learn what he was doing in Rawlins. Whether she would have the courage to confront him face to face, she was not yet certain.

Chapter Ten

      
That nagging prickle had returned for the past fifteen minutes or so. Chase rubbed the back of his neck and cursed as he walked down a dark section of the street where stores and warehouses were closed for the night. The meeting with Gaston was always in the back room of the Rail's End Saloon, just up the street. Chase doubted the man would have any information of sufficient interest for him to risk another raid this soon in the area. It was time for the fall hunt anyway. He should make ready for the long journey to the village in the trackless Bighorn country. No Blue Coats would ever find them there...he prayed.

      
Damn, his concentration was off. Someone was following him. Could de Boef have gotten drunk and let slip who Asa Grant really was? He glided around the corner of the deserted apothecary shop and began to run on silent moccasined feet, circling the little clapboard building, emerging on the other side. A shadow moved, then halted by a pair of rain barrels directly in front of him. Chase slipped the knife from its sheath on his hip and stepped into the street, seizing the slim figure around the neck and pulling it roughly against him.

      
Stephanie felt the impact of her body slamming into a man's chest but when she tried to scream, a hand clamped over her mouth stifling her cry, and a sharp blade pressed against her throat.

      
“Don't make a sound.”

      
Even before he spoke, she had recognized the feel of Chase's body, his scent. Sweaty buckskin clothes could not disguise it from her, even after all these years.

      
He could tell even before he grabbed her that it was the bronze-haired woman. Then as she struggled ineffectually in his arms the scent of apple blossoms teased his nostrils. “Stevie,” he hissed, sheathing his knife and turning her in his arms, unwilling to let her go. “What the hell are you doing here?” He waited as she coughed, trying to catch her breath.

      
Her mind simply shut down. After over three years she was in Chase's arms again. What could she say? She looked up into his face but the moonlight was behind him, shadowing his expression. All she could see were hard planes and angles through the grizzled beard. And those cold black eyes, glittering like the windows of hell.

      
“I—I thought it was you this afternoon but I couldn't be sure...”

      
“So you waited and followed me in the middle of the night, through the worst part of a wide-open rail head? What the hell is going on, Stevie?”

      
She stiffened at his harsh angry accusations. “I could ask you the same thing—Asa the Osage!” She stiffened and tried to draw back from his tight painful grasp. “You're filthy as a wharf tar and you were talking to those men as if you'd never seen the inside of a schoolroom, much less attended Harvard.”

      
He gave a scoffing curse. “In case it's escaped your notice, out here no one flaunts their academic credentials. How did you get from Boston to Wyoming Territory, Stevie?” He could feel her trembling now as she struggled to dredge up some kind of answer.

      
“I'm married, Chase. I came with my husband.”

      
The misery in her voice was genuine. The thought of her being touched by some other man had always haunted him, even more now if she was unhappy in the marriage. He gentled his hold. “I always assumed you'd marry a proper Bostonian blueblood and live in a mansion on Beacon Hill.”

      
“Really? When you ran off, I doubted you'd given much thought to me at all,” she blurted out, unable to stop the retort that revealed her pain.

      
“You know why I had to go,” he replied, stung anew with guilt.

      
“Your letter said you were going to rejoin your father's people, not become a gunman. Why, Chase?”

      
“No, you don't. You're not answering my questions with other questions. What is your husband doing out here? Who is he?” When she would not meet his eyes and began to tremble even more, he knew she was hiding something.

      
Just then a pair of half-drunken cowboys came ambling down the street, headed for the Rail's End. He pulled her back into the darkness between the two buildings, forcing her to hide behind the rain barrels until the men had passed. “Be quiet if you value your reputation,” he whispered. “I doubt the respectable folks in town would understand your being caught in a back alley with a breed in the middle of the night. Neither would most husbands.”

      
When the men were out of earshot, he stood up and helped her to her feet. “What do we do now, Stevie?” he mused aloud, almost as much to himself as to her. “Why won't you tell me about your husband? Won't he notice that you're missing?”

      
“He's not in town right now.” The minute she said it, she bit her lip in vexation.

      
“Oh? Why would he leave you alone in Rawlins? I know you don't live here. I've been in and out of here a dozen times the past year. Where is he?”

      
Then it hit him like a fist. The column of bluebellies that had ridden out last week chasing the White Wolf. He'd heard talk some officers' wives had come to town for a shopping spree. With an oath he swept her up in his arms and strode down the street. When she started to cry out in protest, he reminded her, “Remember what I said. You'll be in almost as much trouble as me if someone hears you.”

      
“I'll be in trouble if I'm found in your arms, too,” she replied breathlessly.

      
“Well, then,” Chase growled, “shut up and maybe no one will see us.”

      
“Where are you taking me?” She felt a frisson of fear in the pit of her stomach. This dangerous stranger was no longer the Chase she had known.

      
He did not answer her, only muttered another curse and slipped around the corner toward the back door of a big sprawling two-story building. It looked seedy and rundown to Stephanie, but that described most of the town. Despite the late hour, lights glowed in all the windows and piano music carried faintly from somewhere inside. Chase tapped on the back door with his foot and it quickly creaked open a scant few inches, spilling a narrow beam of light directly in his face.

      
“Howdy. Asa. What ya got there? Lordee! Bringin' yo' own meat to da' bar-bee-que?” a fierce looking black man the size of a bison asked, grinning as he swung wide the door.

      
Stephanie blinked at the sudden light as Chase carried her inside. The walls were lit by ornate brass lamps that cast flickering shadows on the garish purple-flocked wallpaper. A stained red carpet ran the length of the hall that ended in a large open room from which the piano music and bawdy laughter echoed. “What sort of a place have you brought me to?” she whispered, aghast, for she knew exactly where they must be.

      
Ignoring her he asked the woolly-haired giant, “Do you have a private room free? I need to discuss something with the lady.”

      
Looking dubiously at Stephanie, he shrugged and nodded. “Miz Rocky be fit ta chew a railroad tie 'n' spit toothpicks she see this 'un,” he muttered, leading them to the third door.

      
Before he could open it, a woman of Amazonian proportions emerged from another room down the hall. She was almost as wide as she was tall, which made her wide indeed. Her girth was accentuated by the garish puce satin gown that swished with every purposeful stride as she made her way straight toward Chase. A mound of cleavage bulged up from the front of the low-cut bodice like two giant loaves of rising bread, doughy and pale. Her face was equally pale but well camouflaged with rouge and gritty looking powder which was caked in the creases lining her skin. Bits of red lip paint flecked at the corners of her mouth when she smiled at Chase.

      
“Asa, baby, it's been too long! The gals and I missed you somethin' fierce.” Her puffy little putty-colored eyes shifted from the tall man to the woman he was carrying. She narrowed them and studied Stephanie assessingly. “You bringin' me a new whore, darlin'? I already got plenty—'n' none of 'em are that skinny.”

      
She cackled and slapped one mammoth arm around his broad shoulders, leaning close to give him a kiss. Stephanie nearly gagged at the odor of heavy perfume, reeking breath and stale perspiration.

      
“Rocky, sweetie, this here's Stevie...uh, an old acquaintance I just run across. Seems like she was followin' me 'n' I aim to find out why,” he added ominously.

      
Rocky peered at the girl again. “Now, darlin’ I know you're one great lookin' stud, but even you don't go gettin' females trailin' after yer scent down back streets at midnight. If she's trouble, my boys can get rid of her for you—or I could always put her to work here, once I fatten her tits and ass up a mite.”

      
“Thanks. I appreciate the offer, but I'll handle her myself,” Chase replied, chuckling when he felt Stephanie stiffen in outrage. “You see, the little lady's married to one of them bluebellies from Fort Steele.”

      
Rocky grunted. “Asa, I don't need to hear that shit! Them soldier boys is nothin' but trouble.”

      
“Can you let us talk in private for a few minutes?” He indicated the door the black man had opened.

      
“Wal, I reckon,” Rocky replied grudgingly, eyeing Stephanie with mistrust. “Once yer through with her, get 'er out, and you come back 'n' talk to a lonesome ole woman, you hear?” She winked flirtatiously.

      
“I promise, Rocky darlin'.” Giving a cheeky grin, he returned the madam's wink, then stepped inside the door and set Stephanie down, still holding tightly to her wrist.

      
Rolling his eyes as if imploring heaven for deliverance, the black man closed the door on the couple and shambled down the hall, muttering to himself. Chase crossed his arms over his chest, staring at Stephanie. However, before he could open his mouth, she launched into him furiously. “You have red lip rouge smeared all over your cheek, ‘Asa, baby.’ Why is it all men find cheap women so fascinating?” she asked scathingly.

      
“I’d say it's something a lady is never supposed to ask about...but then we both know you aren't a lady,” he replied, remembering her forthright and unconventional behavior back in staid old Boston.

      
The gleam of faint amusement in his eyes made something inside of her snap. Before she could even think, her hand flashed up and connected stingingly with his cheek. “And you're a gentleman—consorting with prostitutes? In Boston at least you were discriminating enough to choose society matrons for your dalliances.”

      
His eyes narrowed as he stared down into her flushed, angry face. What in hell had set her off—jealousy? He scoffed at himself and said, “Funny, but after sampling both society ladies' and prostitutes, I decided the prostitutes are a hell of a lot more honest...and less costly.”

      
She stared at the red imprint of her hand on his cheek. She had struck him so hard her fingers stung. He was furious, but she refused to show fear. She raised her chin in its old pugnacious set and glared defiantly at him.

      
His flash of surprised fury ebbed as he regarded the slender enigma of Stevie.
If she were Cheyenne she would make a real warrior woman.
Absurd! Where had such an idiotic thought come from. She was pampered and delicate and...white. He forced himself to be calm. “Now,” he continued patiently as if nothing had just transpired, “let's go over everything again, starting with who your husband is and why you were sneaking after me down a back alley at midnight.”

      
Her mouth felt cotton dry and her heart hammered in her chest. But as he leaned arrogantly against the door and stared at her with that harsh piratical expression, his voice so cold and reasonable, she felt another blaze of righteous anger building. All the fury mounting over all the years of her life focused on Chase Remington. Josiah's neglect and disinheritance and Hugh's deception and infidelities had been painful, yet hurt nothing like Chase's desertion. Most of all she was furious with him, for he above all men possessed the power to wound her to her very soul.

      
Hugh frequented places like this and it shamed her but in her secret heart she had grown to prefer that he spend his lust on whores rather than on her. However, it was intolerable that this man was no different than her husband. Whores knew Chase here and no doubt in dozens of other places like it from Omaha to Denver. And this infidelity from a man upon whom she had no legal claim hurt so much worse than her own husband's. Damn him! Damn him for making her love him still!