Rosamunda's Revenge Page 11

  Tacita got a far-away look on her face for a minute. Jed found it enchanting.

  “Oh, my, yes, Mr. Hardcastle. I’d love to have children.”

  “Wouldn’t find ‘em tedious?” He grinned and was sorry to see her expression change into one of sadness again.

  “Oh, no, Mr. Hardcastle. I’m sure I wouldn’t find my children tedious. I suppose only people who are interesting themselves find boring people dull.”

  It took Jed a moment to process the meaning of Tacita’s unusual statement. When he did, his heart took to throbbing again.

  “Don’t reckon most folks think their children are dull, ma’am. I’m pretty sure Miss Amalie wouldn’t think her kids were dull.”

  Tacita sighed. “No, I don’t suppose she would.”

  He read more into her short sentence than the words said. Tucking in his chin and looking at his twig, he mumbled, “I know, ma’am. Reckon Miss Amalie’s not getting much of a bargain in me.”

  “Oh!” Tacita exclaimed, obviously startled by Jed’s interpretation of her words. Then she said, “Oh, no, Mr. Hardcastle. I didn’t mean that. Why, I believe Miss Crunch is getting a fine bargain!”

  Jed was sure he hadn’t heard her right. Because he didn’t want to ask her and discover he was right and he hadn’t, he didn’t say anything. He only offered up another one of his grunts and hoped she’d take it right. They didn’t speak again before they turned in for the night.

  # # #

  Rosamunda was distressed, and chalked up her short temper to having been kidnapped several days earlier.

  Or maybe she was suffering what her mother used to call “Pre-parental jitters.” She was, after all, being carted to San Francisco in order to meet the Yorkie of her dreams. If she’d known it was going to be such a tiring trip, she’d have put up more of a fuss to begin with.

  Nevertheless, she knew it was out of character—and dreadfully wrong of—her to have sunk so low as to have bitten Mistress. Even if Tacita had galled her past endurance by making moony eyes at that wretch, Jedediah Hardcastle.

  Yet Rosamunda knew, no matter how idiotic Mistress became over That Man, she should not—ever—bite her. Not that it had been a hard bite. Actually, it had been more of a love nibble. And, it must be noted, it had served its purpose.

  Not only had Mistress begun paying Rosamunda the attention that was her due; she’d also paid less attention to their guide. For a while, at least.

  Tacita’s sensible behavior hadn’t lasted very long, though. Soon she’d begun talking to him again. This time, however, she hadn’t ignored her duty to Rosamunda.

  Still, Rosamunda didn’t like the way Mistress looked at Jed. Even less did she like the way Jed looked at Mistress.

  As she lay on her back in Tacita’s lap and allowed Tacita to scratch her tummy, Rosamunda wished she could do something about what had all the earmarks of a burgeoning friendship between the two humans.

  Unfortunately, she hadn’t a clue as to what to do.

  Chapter 8

  Tacita hated this country. She hated it with a loathing of which she’d not believed herself capable until now.

  No longer did a merry river caper beside them. No longer did trees tower overhead, graceful and sheltering her in their serene beauty. No longer did birdsong kiss her ears and leaves rustle like fairies’ wings at her side. No; those halcyon days were over now.

  During their travels through the mountains, Tacita had believed her only deprivations to be of a luxurious nature. She’d believed the only commodities she lacked as she undertook her trek were hot baths and soap. Well, and decent meals and proper toilet facilities.

  She’d been dead wrong. She knew it now as they made their way to Alamogordo across the desert. Across the burning sands of the territory where the only signs of life were the remains of those who’d given their last to the elements. Bleached bones mocked her from the ground. Buzzards circled overhead, waiting, Tacita was certain, for her own corpse to join those old bones. She feared they wouldn’t have a long wait.

  She was going to die before they got to Alamogordo; she knew it. She was so hot and so exhausted—so dreadfully weak and thirsty, so enervated—that she would have given herself up to tears except that she’d perspired all the moisture out of her body long since and couldn’t.

  Not that she’d show her tears to Jedediah Hardcastle anyway. What a fiendish brute he was to bring them through this wretched desert. She scowled at his horrible broad back and sniffed, surprised to discover even that much liquid still left in her.

  She stank, too. She’d never smelled her own body odor before, and she hated it. This wasn’t fair.

  “It won’t be too much longer now, ma’am.”

  Jed’s voice carried to her over the waves of shimmering, shivering heat, along with another gust of dust that seared her skin, grated her eyelids and burned her nostrils. Actually, the burning sensation might have been due to the heat, although the dust was certainly not a product of Tacita’s fevered imagination. Rosamunda sneezed in her fur-lined saddle bag, and Tacita managed to form the soothing words, “Poor baby.” She had to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth in order to do so.

  She hoped her darling would forgive her for dragging her into this furnace. Rosamunda didn’t deserve it. Neither did she, Tacita thought miserably.

  They’d ridden out of the mountains three evenings ago—and straight into the jaws of hell. The misery had been going on for two days now. Last night, when she’d almost frozen to death after the day had gasped its last and taken the insufferable heat with it, Jed even had the nerve to remind her that he’d told her how it would be. She hadn’t spoken to him since. Not that she could have done so if she’d wanted to, since her mouth was too dry.

  For the life of her, she didn’t know why being mad at him made her so unhappy.

  “It’s a hard ‘nother day or so, ma’am,” he said now, breaking into her distress, “but then we’ll be in Alamogordo and you can rest up.”

  Her sniff wouldn’t come this time. Rosamunda managed a brief snarl, although it came out sounding more like a peep than one of her usual full-bodied growls. Tacita silently honored her for the attempt.

  “You can take a nice long bath in the hotel and soak all this rotten desert dust off you in Alamogordo.”

  That was the reason; Tacita realized it when her eyes began to sting. First he’d led her into this ghastly oven, and now he was being kind to her—even when she was nasty to him. She wanted to hate him, and she couldn’t.

  What she felt like doing, and abominated herself for, was to ask him to hold her in his wonderful strong arms until she passed from this unendurable mortal coil and made her way to a higher, and hopefully cooler, dimension. One with water and cool, soothing breezes. Tacita could hardly believe it of herself. Not content with being boring, she’d discovered herself to be a despicable weakling as well. The knowledge made her very sad.

  “You’ll feel better when we get out of the desert, ma’am.”

  If she’d had the strength, Tacita would have said something cutting to him for daring to utter such a patently clear observation aloud.

  “It’s real hard going. I don’t reckon a lady like you’s ever been through anything this bad,” he added, confirming Tacita in her belief that he was the world’s most wonderful man. Except when he was being the world’s least wonderful man. She was surprised her emotions could fluctuate so wildly in this heat; she was sure the rest of her wouldn’t have been able to move at all if it weren’t for the horse under her.

  Unless, of course, she perspired so much that she slid clean out of the saddle and landed in the dirt. She wondered if Jed would pick her up and decided he would. Then she decided he wouldn’t, because her temper had been so uncertain lately and he’d been the recipient of its abuse. Then she decided he’d pick her up anyway, because he was the most wonderful man in the world. Then he spoke again, annoying her because he’d interrupted the flow of her confusion.

  “
This is the worst of it, ma’am. After we get to Alamogordo, things won’t be so bad.”

  She tried to say “Thank you,” but couldn’t get her mouth to work.

  # # #

  Jed had never been in such a pickle in his life. Until now he didn’t know he could be such a damned fool. But he couldn’t deny it any longer. He had to acknowledge the truth. Face the music. Pay the piper.

  His heart—an organ he’d never had reason to be concerned about before—was in peril.

  Yup. He slumped lower in the saddle, his big body dripping sweat, his heart heavy, and he felt grumpy as all get out. How on earth could he have allowed himself to get all mushy about a frilly little city woman?

  Just because she was pretty and tiny, possessed a surprising gritty streak and made him feel big and brave and strong was no reason to be so addle-pated. Shoot. She also suffered from delusional thinking, and Jed wasn’t pleased to know he was on the verge of falling in love with a lunatic.

  Her dog was the only thing on earth that loved her? Sweet Lord, give him patience. Jed had never heard anything so crazy in all his born days.

  Besides that, the whole thing was impossible.

  Even if he were to do such a damned fool thing as court her, what would his mother and father say? What would the folks back home in Busted Flush think? What would Miss Amalie Crunch do? Poor Amalie. It’s not as if there were tons of men in Busted Flush who’d rush right in and snap her up if Jed were to do something as dastardly as break their engagement. For one thing, she was too big to snap up. For another, everybody knew she was waiting for Jed, and Jed had never gone back on a promise in his life—and never would.

  Not that they were promised, exactly. They weren’t really and truly, officially, marked-down-in-a-book or shouted-all-over-town engaged. It’s just his ma and pa and her ma and pa and everybody else in Busted Flush expected them to get hitched. He guessed he’d kind of promised his folks. A long time ago. A really, really long time ago.

  Still, Jed Hardcastle wasn’t a man to go back on his word; not for anything. His word was his honor and his honor was his life. Well, his honor and his job. And maybe the new ranch he’d just built in Busted Flush. And his family. Some of his horses, he guessed. Maybe a couple of his old buddies.

  At any rate, Jed’s honor was very important to him, and he didn’t think anything as trivial as falling in love with a female ought to interfere with it. Falling in love. The very phrase gave him a stomachache.

  He slid a glance over his shoulder and wished he hadn’t done anything so stupid when he saw how miserable Tacita looked. His endangered heart gave a twinge that was almost as big as he was when he took in her face—brick red in the sweltering heat—and her stringy, drippy hair. Shoot, her frock, which she’d donned fresh—or as fresh as it could have been, after it had been hauled on a mule for several hundred miles—looked like she’d dunked it in water before she’d put it on.

  She wasn’t cut out for this; Jed knew it. And he wanted to rescue her; to pick her up in his big arms and carry her to safety. Which, after a fashion, was exactly what he was doing.

  With a sigh, he decided none of his bitter musings mattered. His foolish heart didn’t stand a chance. Even if he were to do something as outrageous as throw Miss Amalie Crunch over—and what an image that thought evoked—and ask Miss Tacita Grantham to become his bride, she’d never consent. Hell, if he were to do such an irrational thing, Miss Grantham would probably laugh at him. Or slap his face, if she could reach it.

  What would a tiny porcelain goddess like her want with a big lug like him? The thought might have made him laugh if it didn’t make him want to cry.

  Besides all that, she had that sissy Englishman waiting for her in San Francisco, and she was going to marry him. The thought made Jed’s stomach ache even harder and his endangered heart throb.

  # # #

  “It’s all right, darling. This will soon be over.”

  It wasn’t either all right, and Rosamunda resented Mistress for saying so false and foolish a thing.

  Rosamunda was prostrate. When they’d finally stopped for the night, she’d been so debilitated she could barely hang her tongue out and pant. She was too done in to do more than sprawl on the rabbit fur in her saddle bag. She was too tired even to glare at Jed, much less snarl at him as he deserved.

  Any human being who would put a world-class Yorkshire terrier through this torture was a cruel monster. Rosamunda felt very put upon.

  “Oh, you poor, darling sweetheart. Poor, poor baby.”

  Rosamunda went limp when Tacita gently lifted her from the saddle bag. She let her head loll to emphasize the state of her unhappiness, and only swallowed some water when Tacita squeezed it into her mouth from her own handkerchief which she’d wet with water from her flask.

  “Oh, Mr. Hardcastle! Do you think she’s permanently injured?”

  There were tears in Tacita’s eyes. Rosamunda felt almost—but not quite—guilty for exaggerating her state of collapse. Truth to tell, she did feel fairly collapsible. She’d never endured such abominable heat, and didn’t care to do so ever again.

  Any human being who would put a Yorkie through this torture should be horsewhipped. Not that she blamed Mistress entirely. No. For the most part, she blamed Jed Hardcastle for her misery, and resented Mistress for asking him for assistance. She slitted one eye open and squinted at Jed.

  He ignored her.

  “I don’t know, Miss Grantham. Want I should check her over for you?”

  Horrified that Mistress might actually hand her—her—Rosamunda!—over to such a brute, Rosamunda whimpered.

  “Oh, this wretched territory!” Tacita cried, hugging Rosamunda to her bosom. Rosamunda sighed, glad Mistress knew who was important around here.

  “It’s mighty rugged, all right.”

  Rosamunda opened one eye wider in order to view Jed’s countenance, but discovered herself in the dark, since her head rested on the cushiony softness of Tacita’s breast. She’d been hoping to see the guilty look on his face.

  “Yes.” Tacita sounded sad. “Still, I suppose one must endure hardships in order to achieve one’s goals in life.”

  What? Rosamunda frowned. That’s not what she wanted to hear.

  “I reckon that’s so, ma’am. My ma and pa used to tell me and my brothers and sisters that all the time.”

  Rosamunda would have rolled her eyes in disgust had she been able to do so. This human fool talked about his “ma and pa” as if they were fonts of wisdom. They sounded like idiots to her. Her own mother had told her that the most important thing a Yorkshire terrier could do to assure her rightful place in the universe was to hold her ears at an alert angle, lift her tail to show off its feathery perfections, and never mess on the carpet. Rosamunda had learned her lessons well and had carried them honorably into her adult life. They’d served her well, too. Until recently.

  It was a crying shame more human beings didn’t stick to the basics and save themselves the interminable trouble they were always putting themselves through. Traversing hostile territories indeed! Rosamunda would like to tell these people a thing or two. She would have done so, if she’d been able.

  A watery sniffle and a, “Yes. Yes, I imagine they did. They sound like such sensible, kind-hearted people,” greeted Jed’s banal pronouncement.

  Rosamunda was aghast to realize Mistress actually believed that hogwash about having to endure hardships in order to achieve frivolous goals. Sensible people, her hind leg. And kind-hearted? To actually approve of journeys like this? Absurd. She heaved a little sigh in order to divert Mistress’s attention from Jed.

  “Oh, my poor sweet precious!” Tacita cooed, which pleased Rosamunda.

  “Do you think maybe you should dump some water on Rosie, ma’am?”

  Although she’d been languishing quite beautifully, Jed’s brutal suggestion made Rosamunda jerk to attention. Dump water on her? She pulled away from Tacita’s bosom and stared, horrified, at the dreadful man w
ho had dared to threaten her with water.

  For once Tacita ignored Jed’s shortening Rosamunda’s name. “Oh, look, Mr. Hardcastle! She seems much more chipper now. I don’t think we’ll need to revive her with water.”

  “Good. We don’t have much to spare.” Jed’s voice was as dry as the landscape.

  Taking in the look of patent disbelief on his face and the slight curl of his lip, Rosamunda knew she’d given herself away. To make up for it, she lifted her own lip and snarled at him.

  “Maybe you ought to introduce that dog to one of them—those actor fellows, Miss Grantham,” Jed muttered. “‘Pears to me she’d do pretty good on the stage.”

  Tacita missed Jed’s point, for which Rosamunda could only be thankful. As she stroked her lovingly, Tacita murmured, “Oh, yes. Why, my darling would grace any stage in the world.”

  Jed rolled his eyes.

  Rosamunda honored Tacita with a rather dry kiss.

  # # #

  The next day, Tacita had to abandon one of her suitcases to the merciless desert.

  “The mule’s not going to make it unless we lighten its load, ma’am.”

  Tacita put a hand to her mouth and nibbled on the end of her finger until she tasted the dust. Then she spat it out and tapped her cheek instead. “Oh, dear. I hate to throw anything away, Mr. Hardcastle.”

  “Well, ma’am, like I said before we left Powder Gulch, this is a hard trip.” After a moment, during which it looked to Tacita as though he were struggling with himself, he added, “I told you how it’d be.”

  Tacita hung her head. “Yes. I know you did.” She felt very sad that she’d given him such a hard time in Powder Gulch. He’d been right and she’d been silly to believe he was merely trying to frighten her. “I remember it well.”

  “Do you want to go through one of them—those bags and see what you can stand to part with, ma’am? I don’t want you to have to throw out something you especially need or anything.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hardcastle.”

  So she’d ripped into the two bags she’d brought with her and ruthlessly sorted through her belongings. In truth, the bags primarily carried clothing, and Tacita knew she could always replace them. They were mostly fancy clothes, anyway. She’d brought them to wear in San Francisco, and they were all heavy with boning and other materials designed to torture women into loveliness. When she flung them aside, she actually experienced a moment of freeing exhilaration.