The Fortune (6 page)

“In that brief time, the apprentice fell in love with the young woman. He knocked again, overcome with the need to know who she was. This time the girl’s father opened the door and took the gift, paying the man in coin. Yet it was not the last time he came to the young woman’s house. He made her many gifts, one each week, until the father grew sick of seeing him.”

Maman picked up the thread. “The girl examined each gift, finding her heart melt with each of the wooden creations. From the looking glass, to the writing set, the small desk and the wooden menagerie, each piece was crafted with care, with love. She did not know the young man, but she felt his hands on each creation she held in her own.”

Papa smiled. “One day while on the way home from taking a walk in the park, the young woman saw the apprentice leaving another gift on her doorstep. She stepped forward and thanked him. The sound of her voice rendered him speechless. Her smile made his heart stop. Her father protested the match, but in the end, love and the talent of a carpenter’s apprentice won the heart of the princess.” Papa kissed his wife’s hand with all the passion and love he had found more than twenty years ago.
 

Maman finished the tale. “She learned to be a nurse under her father’s tutelage and the carpenter crafted art from wood. Together they made the most beautiful children the world had ever seen.”
 

“And they lived happily ever after.” Charlotte sighed. “There is one thing I don’t understand, though.”

“What is that,
ma petite
?” Papa asked.

“Why did you leave France? That’s where you fell in love. It must be a special place.” She leaned forward, her chin on her palm.

Frankie knew part of the story, remembered some of it, but it wasn’t her tale to tell. She petted her youngest sister’s hair, waiting to hear what their parents would say.

Papa’s expression saddened and he looked at Maman. “Things changed after the July Revolution, after Louis-Philippe took the throne. We did not believe it was a safe place to raise our children. Those without money were without hope. We found that hope again in America.”

“Without money? I thought Maman was a princess.” Charlotte was nothing if not guileless.

“My papa was a physician until the revolution, then he was accidently killed.” The weight of the memories weighed on their mother’s words. “We needed to leave France.”

Papa pulled his wife close, until Frankie could hardly see where one ended and the other began. “But we have each other and our girls, and that is what is important.”

This time their parents kissed and Charlotte groaned. “I don’t want to see
that
part.” She got to her feet. “I’m going to go to sleep and dream of a prince making me beautiful gifts.”

The sisters rose, each kissing their parents goodnight before crawling into their beds beneath the wagon. Frankie lingered over hugging her mother, then her father. They had risked everything for each other and their children.
 

Papa and Maman were still so much in love. Frankie felt a pinch of envy, but it passed. The thought of depending on someone else, for her life, her happiness, even her future, made her quake. She wanted to rely on no one but herself. Ever.

By the time she found her bed, the rest of the girls were talking quietly. She closed her eyes, comforted by the sound of her sisters’ voices. In their new life in Oregon, her family would be all she had. Frankie was grateful to have them at her side. Life was hard at times, but family made those dark moments bearable.

Chapter Four

Frankie successfully avoided seeing John Malloy, except from a distance, for four days. She walked beside the wagon as they traveled, too tired to do much but fall asleep beneath it at night. Mr. Malloy was everywhere she looked, however, helping folks and doing his job. It wasn’t her fault if he happened to be in her line of sight.

The wagon train had finally stopped for the night. Frankie was gathering kindling in a thatch of trees when she noticed John nearby, chopping wood without his shirt.

Frankie tried to swallow, but her mouth and throat had gone dry as the desert. She looked at John’s back as he worked. His skin was bronzed by the sun and she could see a slow trickle of sweat weaving its way down the middle of his back. She watched the droplets as they meandered through the topography of his spine. His well-toned muscles rippled with each stroke of the ax. The muscles were bunched together tightly, showing years of hard work. A white scar marred the left shoulder blade, at least six inches long and jagged. She’d helped her mother enough to recognize a knife wound.

What am I doing?

She gave herself a mental smack and started moving. Staring at the man was not only a bad idea, but if he caught her staring, she would be mortified. Her hands grew damp as she tried to sneak past him, the kindling clutched to her chest. She stepped on a stick, which cracked beneath the sole of her boot. Cursing softly, she quickened her pace, hoping he hadn’t heard her.

John turned to look at her as he wiped the sweat from his brow with a swatch of cloth. He smiled. “Good evening, Frankie. Doing chores, I see.”
 

As though she had no control over her own reaction, she stared at him. “What? Oh, yes, of course, my chores! Your chest is bare again.” Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. What would possess her to say something like that? “Well, that was foolish. My apologies, Mr. Malloy. I must go.”

“I thought I was alone out here. Didn’t know I had a Peeping Tom.” He was obviously not going to be a gentleman. This did not surprise her.

“How kind of you to make me feel even more foolish.” Her smile was more of a teeth-baring.

The rogue grinned as he slipped on his shirt then slapped his hat on his head. “Let’s walk back together.”

Frankie wanted to throw the wood at him, but she grudgingly admitted it would be safer to walk with him. The gathering darkness reminded her of just how isolated the prairie was, and how many dangers lurked. Perhaps some small perverse corner of her mind wanted to be in his company, much as that thought appalled her.

John gathered his wood into one arm, carried an axe with the other and fell into step beside Frankie. She kept a brisk pace, hoping to make the journey as short as possible. However, her curiosity burbled along merrily, and she was never one not to speak her mind, even considering how much pain it had caused her.

“May I ask you a question,
Monsieur
Malloy?”

“’Course.” His scent wafted through the air, one of man, sweat and outdoors. While not sweet, it was appealing, which surprised her.
 

“Where did you get that scar on your back?”
 

John stopped short. A hard look came into his eyes.

“My apologies. I did not mean to—“ Frankie began.

“I can see how people can be curious, but it’s not something I like to talk about.” He walked on, his long legs eating up the distance quickly.
 

Frankie felt guilty for prying into his personal business. She had no call to ask him about the scar; it was none of her concern. Judging by the look of the skin, the wound had taken place two or three years ago. Someone hadn’t stitched it properly, leaving a jagged mark on his otherwise perfect skin. If her Maman had doctored it, the scar would be cleaner.

Unfortunately, Frankie was lost in thoughts of Mr. Malloy and didn’t watch where she was going. Her foot stopped on a tree root and the rest of her didn’t. Hindered by the bundle of kindling in her arms, she let out a yelp and headed for the ground at a high rate of speed.

A band of steel encircled her, stopping her fall completely. The kindling scattered with a series of noisy thumps. John had snatched her in midair, saving her, for the second time, from being hurt. He turned her around and pulled her up until she was flush against him. To her consternation, her pulse quickened. Frankie’s breasts pushed up against John’s hard chest. A chest she had seen naked minutes before. Its sinewy, smooth imprint had never left her mind.
 

The moment stretched on, their breaths mingled as their hearts thumped against each other. She didn’t protest or move, strangely comfortable within his arms, a dangerous place to be. He leaned down and brushed his lips across hers. Once, twice, thrice. His lips were soft but firm as they pressed down on hers, moving from one end of her mouth to the other. Sweet saints above, she could kiss this man forever. Her pulse pounded through her veins, her body alive for the first time in her life.

Stop this. Now.

Frankie raised her hands to extract herself from his hold, fully aware her palms were now in direct contact with that amazing specimen of male chest, which was as hard as granite. Her fingers itched to feel the muscles beneath his shirt, but she pushed at him, needing to put air between them.
 

To her relief, he released her instantly. She straightened up and ran her hands down her hair as though she needed to groom herself after kissing him. Silly and unnecessary, but it gave her a moment to gather her wits since they seem to have deserted her. Her skin was on fire from being pressed against him from stem to stern, not to mention her lips, which throbbed in tune with her pulse. Her body wasn’t supposed to react like that to a man. Frankie was a mess of confusion.

She gathered the spilled kindling from the ground with trembling hands. “I do hope I have not given you a false impression,
Monsieur
Malloy. I do not kiss complete strangers. This will never happen again.”

“I could tell.” His arrogance infuriated her.

“You are no gentleman.” She wanted to hit him for kissing her. At the same time, she wanted him to do it again.

“I never said I was.” The cocky man had the nerve to try to take her arm.

She pulled out of his grasp. “I do not need further assistance,
Monsieur
Malloy.”

Frankie walked away with as much dignity as she could muster. He called her name but didn’t chase after her, and she wasn’t about to stop. The tall grass made her progress difficult, but she dared not stop. She could hardly believe she had allowed him to kiss her.
 

Worse, she wanted to do it again.

John watched Frankie hurry away like her ass was on fire. He wanted to go after her, but he knew his job was on the line if he continued to mess with one of the settler’s daughters. No matter how incredibly tempting she was.

His dick had taken over his brain. That was the only explanation. He’d kissed her. Several times. He’d held her flush against him, like holding a piece of heaven. Jesus, the woman was made for loving, full of natural passion. He hadn’t expected that from such a prim and proper girl. She’d surprised him at the creek and now again in the field.

He stood there with the axe and wood, staring at her retreating back until the deepening darkness swallowed her. His body thrummed with the echoes of the kisses. He’d not been with a woman in months, or even longer, given the way the last experience ended. As if on cue, the scar on his shoulder twinged.

Frankie was dangerous, far more dangerous than Veronica Harvey. Not once in any of the trips he’d made previously with Buck had there been a woman who caught his eye. Now there were two females complicating things.
 

Frankie was trouble with a capital T. Intriguing, bossy, opinionated and sexy. He damn well shouldn’t have kissed her. Hell’s bells, how was he going to get through the next four months with a constant wooden stick in his britches?

He was no green boy sparking for the first time. John was twenty-five years old and he’d done a lot of living in that time. Damn sure shouldn’t be doing anything with any woman. The sad truth was, he didn’t have time for anyone but himself.

He spent the evening helping folks when he needed to, finding this batch of settlers to be more helpless than the last. From people who still couldn’t start a campfire to the old woman who refused to get in or out of the wagon without him to lost children and dogs who bit him. John escaped to the small creek nearby and washed off the day’s dust in the frigid water. He was in a foul mood when he finally headed for his tent by the edge of the wagons.
 

His boots slid along the dew-covered grass, the cold night air making the blades almost snap under his weight. The sounds of the camp had settled into low murmurs, the crackle of campfires, a crying baby in the distance and snores. Peaceful, at least somewhat. Enough to allow him to sleep, anyway.

He crawled into the tent and stopped in mid-motion. The barest hint of sound hit his ears, an intake of breath. Then he caught the scent of someone else, someone who smelled like soap. His hand crept to the pistol riding his hip. He cleared leather and strained to see the shape of whoever had dared lay in wait for him.

“You’d best start talking about why you’re here before I stain the canvas with your brains.” He cocked the pistol, the snick loud in the quietness of the small tent.

“I hope you don’t treat women like this all the time.” A nervous laugh.
 

Shit. Veronica Harvey was in his goddamn tent.

“Get out. Now, before your father sees you.”

“That’s the whole point, silly.” She moved closer, one pale hand swiping his cheek.

John jerked back and hightailed it out of the tent. He got to his feet and waited, yet she didn’t follow. This reminded him of a time he’d like to forget, years ago when another young woman decided she was his for the taking. No way he would allow Veronica to manipulate this situation.