The Fortune (3 page)

John should have told her, but damn, he enjoyed the view too much. The devil inside him wanted to know the color of the nipples currently poking at her dress. They weren’t too dark, perhaps pink.

“
Monsieur
Malloy, the dress?” She tapped her foot and swung her hair back.

He couldn’t stop himself, his gaze dropped again to her chest. She followed his stare and gasped, her arms slamming over those tits in a flash.

“I cannot believe you did not tell me.”

“I can’t believe you expected me to.” He grinned, completely unrepentant and enjoying his time with Frankie Chastain immensely.

“You,
monsieur
, are no gentleman.”

“I never said I was.” He tossed the dress, enjoying the wet slap as it landed in her arms. Damn but he felt like laughing.

Frankie spun on her heel and walked away. Too late John realized he still hadn’t had his hand doctored, so he needed to return to the Chastain wagon. A tiny bubble of excitement tickled his belly. Frankie had definitely put a twist in his tail in the short time he’d known her.

The stinging in his hand pulled John out of his thoughts. He was walking across the tall grass, barefoot and shirtless, mumbling to himself. Charlotte Chastain stood at the corner of the wagon, staring at him with a curious expression on her face. He wondered if Frankie had passed, soaking wet and full of fire, by her youngest sister.

He stopped and pulled on his shirt, buttoning it quickly, then yanked on his boots and plopped his hat on his head. With a nod to the youngest sister who liked to curse, he went around the front of the wagon to find Frankie sitting in front of the fire with a blanket on her shoulders. Beside her sat an older version of her, her green gaze intent and sharp.

“
Monsieur
, are you to blame for my daughter’s condition?” She glanced at Frankie. “
Est-ce qu'il est l'homme
?”

“
Monsieur
Malloy saved me from a wagon, Maman.
Le petit protector
went off accidently and shot him in the hand. We were both muddy and after I washed up, Mr. Malloy used the creek.” Frankie’s gaze dared him to contradict her.

“Hmmm, I think there is more to this story.” Mrs. Chastain glanced at her daughter. “But first I shall see to your wounds.
Monsieur
, please sit. I shall fetch my medical kit.”

John sat down on an upended crate across the fire from Frankie. She watched him, her eyes looking wide and owl-like from the blanket that surrounded her. Her wet dress hung on bushes nearby to dry. Gone was the bossy sprite and in her place, a docile little girl. At least that was the illusion in front of him. Perhaps her mother didn’t know the real woman who lived behind the mask that he saw now. Or he was acting stupid for loss of blood.

“Here we are,
monsieur
.” Mrs. Chastain knelt in front of him and unwrapped the wet rag from around his hand. She examined the wound closely, peering at his skin with a magnifying glass until he felt like a bug. “The bullet is beneath the layers of tissue. It’s not too deep, but I must extract it.”
 

“Take it out, then. I don’t want it left inside where it can fester.” John was uncomfortable knowing he had the damn bullet stuck inside him, like a macabre souvenir of meeting Frankie.

“It will be painful.” Mrs. Chastain looked up at him. “Your skin is quite cold from the water you were in, but I do not have anesthetic except for a poultice made from plants. It will take ten minutes to be effective.”

She sure as hell talked like a doctor. Her medical bag was a tapestry traveling case with things in it he’d never seen before. There were shiny instruments, clamps, rolled bandages and something with a gauge. This woman exuded confidence and strength. Frankie had inherited some of that from her mother for sure. John had been wounded in his life, what real man hadn’t, but this was the first time he’d been shot. He wouldn’t be telling the tale, though, embarrassing as hell to be shot by a tiny gun no bigger than a turd while trying to save a lady’s life. Oh no, that story would not pass his lips. Ever.

“Nah, no poultice, just take the thing out.”

Mrs. Chastain glanced over at her daughter. “Francesca, I need you to hand me instruments. Josephine, bring me a basin of hot water, please.”

Frankie jumped to her feet and knelt beside her mother. She had obviously been in this position before, calm and prepared to assist. Miss Chastain had many sides—this was the third he’d seen since they’d met less than an hour before. He wondered which was the real Frankie. The sister with the glasses used a dipper to fill a basin with hot water from the bucket on the fire. She didn’t say a word while she worked. After she set the basin down beside her mother, she disappeared behind the wagon.
 

Mrs. Chastain moved until she was nearly in his lap. She put a cloth on his knee, then flattened his hand on top of it. “Hold your hand as steady as you can,
monsieur
. If you move, I will have to strap it down or have Francesca hold it down.”

It amused him to think of Frankie holding his hand down on his thigh, but he didn’t let the smile show. “I’ll keep it steady, ma’am.”

“
Merci
.” Mrs. Chastain went to work, murmuring softly to Frankie, who handed her shiny tools almost as though she knew what her mother would ask for. They had identical expressions of concentration with furrowed brows. She definitely favored her mother, what with the wispy hair escaping from its confines.
 

When Mrs. Chastain dug into his skin with a tiny little tool with pincers, pain ripped through him. He sucked in a breath through his teeth. Frankie glanced up at him with sympathy in her eyes. Her hair was still matted and wet, plastered against her skull. He wondered what it would be like to wake up with that face beside him.

Another jolt of pain yanked him from his stupid meanderings. Frankie Chastain was a virginal daughter of a settler. He had no goddamn business wondering a thing about her or how she would feel in his arms. Not one thought should cross his mind.

“I have it. Be very still.” Mrs. Chastain slowly extracted the small tool. At the end of the bloody tool was a tiny metal lump.

“What’s that?” He peered at it, wondering how the hell it got in his hand.

“That is the bullet.” She turned it this way and that. “It only went in an inch. It is still intact, for which you are lucky. Fragments would have been a bit more painful to remove.” She dipped the tool into a basin of steaming water beside her.

“I’d like to keep hold of that, if you don’t mind, as a souvenir.” John held out his other hand and she dropped the bullet into it.
 

“Of course.
Le petit protector
is meant to scare, not to harm. My apologies for the pain you have endured.” Mrs. Chastain’s accented English was flawless, as was her medical demeanor. It must be tough to be the daughter of such a woman. High standards to live up to, something he knew all too well.

He looked at the tiny bullet in his hand and then up at the woman who had put it in him. A smile played around her eyes, but she didn’t let it show. Little brat.

Mrs. Chastain poured clear liquid over his hand and it stung like a bitch. He clamped his lips together to keep the shout inside him. After a few moments, she used another cloth to wipe away the rest of the blood.
 

“I believe clean instruments and clean wounds are the foundation for better healing. I would suggest you clean this three times a day,
Monsieur
Malloy.” She murmured to Frankie, who handed her a length of clean linen. Mrs. Chastain wrapped his hand and tied it gently. She patted his hand and got to her feet. “There, it is done. Not too bad, no?”

“No, it wasn’t bad. It was mighty kind of you to doctor me, Mrs. Chastain.” He rose and tucked the bullet into his pocket. “I’ll be sure to come back if I get hurt during the journey.”

“Ah, you are part of the wagon train?” Mrs. Chastain glanced at Frankie, who was just getting to her feet. “You did not tell me he was a settler.”

“I ain’t a settler. I work for Buck Avery, ma’am. I’m working this wagon train.” He enjoyed the shock, then annoyance that flashed across Frankie’s face. She would be entertaining, that was for certain. He looked forward to sparring with her again.

“
Bon
! I will be happy to help you if you need medical assistance.” Mrs. Chastain folded her hands in front of her. “Good day to you,
Monsieur
Malloy.”

A polite dismissal. John touched the brim of his hat. “Good day, Mrs. Chastain.” He raised one brow at Frankie. “And to you, Miss Chastain.”

He left their wagon, a smile on his face and a stinging in his hand, but damn, what an interesting morning he’d already had. His clothes would dry and his hand would heal. The four months ahead didn’t seem to be all that bad, not if he could run into Frankie Chastain now and again. Whether or not she wanted to see him, well, he wouldn’t think about that. John pushed aside the thought and went in search of vittles. It was past breakfast time and he’d worked up quite an appetite sparring with the little filly.

Oh yes, the trip to Oregon would not be boring.

Three days until things changed again for the Chastain family, until the next half of their journey began. As Frankie washed the supper dishes, her mind wandered back to the beginning of their journey. To New York.
 

She pushed aside the dark thoughts, choosing to think about all they would have in Oregon, the opportunities for her father Gaston, a skilled carpenter and wood craftsman. The territory was full of hope, full of promise, full of opportunities for her father and her family. Frankie wanted the peace of the new land, the quiet away from the cities of the east, the dirt, the smell, the crush of humanity, the dregs of society.
 

The sunset cast its orange glow around her at the creek. This was a tiny bit of peace, a snippet of what she hoped to find at the end of the long journey ahead. Her sisters walked toward the creek and settled on the grass around her. In the evenings, they would always talk about the day and what was ahead tomorrow. Frankie shook her head to clear away the shadows and cobwebs.
 

Josephine had a tin plate in her hand. “You forgot one.”

“
Merci
.” She took the dish from her sister and scrubbed it in the bucket of sudsy water.

Josephine stared at her with that special intensity she had. “Mr. Malloy upset you.”

Frankie shrugged. “Much as I loathe to admit it, he did. I will be fine if I avoid him.”

“I thought you said he was working for Mr. Avery. It might be hard to avoid him for four months.”

Frankie made a face. “
Merde
, I forgot about that.”

“He is very handsome.” Isabelle smiled. “His eyes are as blue as the sky.”

“He sure bleeds a hell of a lot.” Charlotte lay back on the grass, her arms behind her head. “But I didn’t think he was handsome.”

“I am certain we can find a way to make sure he does not bother you.” Josephine touched her shoulder. “Papa can talk to Mr. Avery and—”

“No. I do not want Mr. Malloy to be in trouble.” Frankie shook her head. “He did pull me out of the path of a wagon.”

“Is that why were you so short with everyone?” Isabelle’s mouth moved into a wispy smile. “A brush with death? It is rather romantic that he saved you.”

Frankie could always count on her sisters to show her every possible viewpoint. All four of them were as different as they could be, but there was abundant love to make up for the inevitable conflicts.

She owed it to them to be honest, although it was a painful confession. “He reminded me of what it meant to be a female.”

Josephine pulled Frankie’s hands from the water and held them tightly. “You should not need to be reminded you are female. You have changed, Frankie, and not in a good way. When will you tell me what really happened in New York?”

Frankie’s stomach dropped to her feet. She promised herself she would never tell her sisters what she’d done. Not even Jo who knew something of what happened, but she didn’t know all of it. “Nothing I want to discuss. You know what happened to our family and that is what is important. I miss what we had, that’s all.”

Josephine twisted her lips into a frown. “You do not miss our brocade settee or house in Brooklyn. I do not believe that.”

“What happened in New York? What did I miss?” Charlotte sat up with a scowl.
 

“Yes, what happened?” Isabelle, who could be counted on to see the bright side of the darkest night, frowned.

Frankie stared at her sisters, concern on their faces. Her throat tightened and it took great effort to swallow the lump that had formed. “New York does not exist for us anymore.” Frankie squeezed each of her sisters’ hands. “Let us look ahead to Oregon and not behind.”

“For you, I will look ahead, but I cannot forget the past.” Josephine got to her feet. There were secrets she knew, that she would never tell, but there were others Jo didn’t know about. It would only hurt her and cause her distress, so Frankie would keep those to herself like rotten apples in the barrel in the corner of a cellar.
 

“What have you not told us? Is this about when you were gone for several days?” Isabelle was too smart to fool, but Frankie couldn’t lie to her.