Rosamunda's Revenge Read online

  Of course she kept beautiful emerald necklace her parents had given her right before they departed on what was destined to be their last ocean voyage. She’d scarcely taken it off, in fact, since her father had clasped it around her neck. She smiled sadly, remembering, then shook off her mood. Yes. She’d definitely never part with her necklace; besides, she wore it. If the mule found it weighty, that was just too bad for the mule.

  She also kept the photographs of her mother and father. And Rosamunda. And Edgar Jevington Reeve’s wonderful Yorkie, Prince Albert, to whom Tacita planned to breed Rosamunda. She even found her lost smile when she stared at Prince Albert’s picture. He looked alert, well-groomed and handsome—and quite cool—in Edgar’s arms.

  Frowning, she also considered Edgar’s countenance, and decided he looked thin and pasty. Prince Albert, though . . . Well, Prince Albert was truly a prince among Yorkies. Looking up, she saw Jed staring at her, his expression unreadable.

  She packed the photographs away in her second, smaller, suitcase and padded them carefully with her flannel nightgown. The thought of flannel made Tacita feel almost physically ill.

  “There. Can the mule handle that much, Mr. Hardcastle?”

  “I think so, ma’am. You done—did a good job.”

  Jed still looked kind of sad, and Tacita thought it was very sensitive of him to care about her lost belongings. Although she knew she must look a perfect sight, she gave him her sunniest smile. Jed smiled back.

  Rosamunda, watching the two of them, wanted to heave.

  # # #

  That afternoon, Tacita saw in the distance a sea of snow shimmering under the relentless sun. She knew it was snow, because there was nothing else so white and nothing else that could cover so much territory. Since she knew it couldn’t be snow even though there was nothing else it could be, she knew she was seeing things that weren’t there and rubbed her eyes to banish the vision. When she opened them again, the snow was still there.

  Oh, dear. She’d lost her mind at last; she knew it. The blistering heat had boiled her brains. Wasted her wits. Incinerated her intelligence. She was now a lunatic. She wondered when she’d start to rave and hoped Jed would be kind to her. In spite of her dried-out state and her determination to be strong, she whimpered.

  At once, Jed turned Charlie around. He was at her side in an instant.

  “What’s the matter, ma’am?” He sounded scared.

  She shook her head, too miserable for words.

  Jed persisted.

  She resisted.

  As usual, he was stronger than she was. Feeling utterly defeated, she murmured helplessly, “I’m hallucinating.”

  He stared at her, apparently too overcome by her disturbing declaration to respond. She stared back, too wretched to elaborate.

  At last he said, “Huh?”

  Tacita frowned. “Hallucinating,” she repeated. “Having visions. Seeing things.”

  “Oh.” Scratching his chin, Jed asked, “What makes you think so, ma’am?”

  “Because—” Oh, dear, this was so embarrassing. Tacita took a deep breath and regretted it immediately when it burned her lungs. After a brutal coughing fit, she tried again. “Because I see snow on the horizon.”

  Bracing himself on his saddle, Jed turned and looked where she pointed. “Oh, that.”

  Oh, that? Tacita frowned again. Then she became hopeful. “You mean you see it, too?”

  “Sure. That there’s the White Sands.”

  “The White Sands?”

  “Sure. That’s the White Sands. They’re—white.”

  She frowned again. “I can see that. But what are they?”

  “Well, they’re sand. White sand.”

  Although she deplored the gesture, Tacita allowed herself to roll her eyes. She deserved it, given the circumstances. “Yes, I can see that. But what are they?”

  Jed shrugged. Tacita wanted to pummel him. He said, “I’ve heard they’re gypsum deposits that the wind’s scraped into powder. They’re one of them—what do you call ‘em—natural phenomenons. They’re nothing to worry about.”

  Nothing to worry about, he said. And here she’d believed herself to be insane. Tacita might have shrieked if she’d had breath and spit enough. “I didn’t think for a minute somebody’d hauled them out here, Mr. Hardcastle.”

  He chuckled. “Reckon not, ma’am.”

  Tacita didn’t speak again until suppertime. It took hours and hours for the White Sands to pass from their view. Tacita had never seen anything like them. If they hadn’t caused her such real distress, she might have appreciated their pristine beauty. As it was, she wished the shimmering gypsum dunes had decided to take up residence in Arabia or somewhere. Anywhere she wasn’t, in fact.

  Chapter 9

  They arrived in Alamogordo the following evening.

  Thank God, thought Rosamunda.

  “Thank God,” said Tacita.

  Jed bowed his head and looked like he was praying. Rosamunda hoped his prayer was one begging forgiveness for having led them through the last several hellish days. She’d sure never forgive him.

  “I’ll get us some rooms at the hotel, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hardcastle.”

  Tacita looked extremely fatigued. Rosamunda wished she’d lift her down from her saddlebag so she could bite Jed’s ankle and punish him for torturing them in this way. Poor Mistress. Poor Rosamunda. She didn’t have a chance to bite him because he lifted Mistress down before Mistress took her from her saddlebag. She resented Jed for it.

  Nevertheless, she rested patiently in Tacita’s lap while Jed spoke with the hotel clerk. Her opportunity for revenge would arrive one day. Rosamunda knew it, and she was willing to wait. She’d heard it said once that revenge was a dish best served cold, and she believed it. Of course, Rosamunda would have appreciated anything served cold at the moment.

  # # #

  At least this hotel wasn’t quite as dismal as the one in Powder Gulch, Jed decided, even if it did sit in Alamogordo, in the middle of New Mexico Territory. Alamogordo was a relatively civilized place, all things considered. It had been here for years, probably settled by the Spanish in their quest for the fabled City of Gold, damned fools that they were. They’d missed it here, although it wasn’t a bad place. Exactly.

  Jed eyed his room, trying to see it through the eyes of a tiny, wealthy, sheltered city woman, and sighed heavily.

  “Hell. It’s a damned dump.”

  He knew she’d hate it.

  That didn’t stop him, though. Before he unpacked, before he asked the hotel staff to draw his bath, before he did more than sniff under his armpits—an activity that nearly made him pass out—Jed went shopping.

  # # #

  “Oh, Rosamunda, I’ve never felt anything so wonderful in my entire life.” Tacita sank back into the bubbly water steaming in the tin bath tub and sighed blissfully.

  Rosamunda, drying off by the fire, did not even turn to look at her. Her ears drooped, her tail sagged, her chin rested on her damp forepaws, and she projected the very image of a sorely abused Yorkie. Which she was. Baths! She hated them.

  Tacita smiled, understanding that her precious darling was in a towering sulk. She didn’t mind. At least her sweetums was clean again, and her prize-winning coat would glisten as it ought to once Tacita had an opportunity to brush it. Besides, now that they were out of that appalling desert, Tacita didn’t think she’d ever mind anything ever again in her life.

  She’d survived unscathed, too; or at least relatively so. Oh, perhaps she’d bear freckles to remind her of her ordeal, but Tacita didn’t mind freckles too much. It’s not as if she had a sweetheart who might take exception to a flawed complexion, after all. She grimaced and decided not to think about that.

  It felt so good to relax in a real bath. Comfortable and soon to be clean for the first time in what seemed like years, Tacita let her mind wander. Immediately, it wandered to Jed Hardcastle, and she allowed herself another tiny frown.
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  “I wish I didn’t think about Mr. Hardcastle so often, Rosamunda. I know such thoughts are not good for me. After all, we shouldn’t suit one another at all. He’s a rough, uneducated Texas fellow and I’m from the city. Besides, the man is engaged to be married.” She gave a tiny sniff. “Miss Amalie Crunch. What kind of name is that?”

  Rosamunda lifted one furry ear, but didn’t deign to turn and look at her mistress. She was in a serious miff, and aimed to exact suitable punishment upon Tacita.

  “I can’t seem to stop thinking about him, though.” Tacita heaved a sigh so big it almost made water slop out of the tub.

  Rosamunda’s ear cocked back an inch. She didn’t like what she was hearing. Not one little bit. This was bad. This was almost worse than the desert. It was definitely worse than a bath.

  “I don’t suppose he ever thinks about me at all. Except as a nuisance.” Tacita’s frown deepened. “I’m not sure what it is about him that’s so appealing to me. He’s an argumentative man, and I don’t generally care for obstreperous people. Perhaps it’s because he’s so big. You must admit that such largeness of frame is rather comforting. He does give one a safe feeling.”

  Rosamunda glared into the fire. Jedediah Hardcastle didn’t give her a safe feeling. He made her want to chew up his big ugly boots. She listened harder, her little heart heavy, a bitter feeling in her tummy. Unless that was the left-over hard tack and jerky she’d had for luncheon. The fare on this trip, so far, was abysmal.

  Tacita thought for a moment. “There is one other thing in his favor, Rosamunda darling. He seems to be interested in what I have to say about things.”

  The latter attribute was the one that most astonished and gratified Tacita. In her entire life, nobody had been interested in anything she’d done or said. The way Jed seemed to focus on her when she spoke—indeed, seemed almost to stare at her—thrilled her.

  Her parents, who were brilliant, witty, charming people, had traveled the world over and boasted numerous brilliant, witty, charming acquaintances with whom to amuse themselves. They’d had no patience for the timid little daughter who longed for their attention. When they were home, which wasn’t often, Tacita had felt rather like a stranger: tongue-tied and clumsy, a pallid nobody who faded away to a vapor in the reflected luster of her mother and father.

  Even now, as she enjoyed her bath, she sighed, remembering her childhood. Oh, how she’d wanted to shine as her parents did. And oh, how she’d failed. She was just too boring for words. Even Uncle Luther, who paid her some mind, was generally impatient about it. He had worries, he said. Although he never said so, Tacita knew that his worries were infinitely more important than his niece.

  But Jed . . . It was different with Jed. Of course, it might just be that he paid attention to her because she was the only other person around, but he didn’t give her that impression. He seemed truly interested in her.

  Tacita sucked in a deep, lavender-scented breath. “You know, darling, it sounds silly, but I believe I could come to care very deeply for Mr. Hardcastle.”

  Rosamunda’s other ear shot up. This was, possibly, the worst thing she’d ever heard spoken in English. Even that horrid Mr. Cesare’s, “Here, doggie, doggie,” when he’d been luring her away from camp hadn’t sounded so awful to her ears. Of course, he’d been holding a piece of beefsteak at the time, too, which had helped.

  But this! From her own dear Mistress’s lips! This presaged disaster. Rosamunda knew it.

  “Not that I shall allow myself to do anything so foolish, of course.”

  Whew. Rosamunda allowed her ear to lower, although she still wasn’t easy in her mind.

  “And not that he’d ever pay any attention to me, even if I did allow myself to care for him. I already know that most people find me too dull to bother with.” Tacita sighed again. “Besides, he thinks I’m engaged to Mr. Reeve.”

  Tacita eyed her bath water and wondered if the hotel staff would object to refilling the tub so that she could wash her hair. This water was already cloudy with desert dust that had soaked from her skin. It didn’t look like it was going to last long enough to deal with her hair, too.

  “Of course, when he discovers the reason for our journey, it won’t make a particle of difference how we feel about one another. Even if he learns to like me by the time we get to San Francisco, he’ll hate me once he knows why I hired him to take us there.”

  Rosamunda cocked her head to one side, wondering what Mistress meant by that. Why should that monster hate her for such a sensible purpose as undertaking a journey in order to breed Rosamunda to Prince Albert?

  Tacita picked up the lavender soap she’d carted all the way from Galveston and began to lather her arm, grimacing when she saw the river of muddy soapsuds dripping from her elbow. Whether they liked it or not, the hotel staff would refill the tub before she attempted her hair. She’d give them a hefty tip for accommodating her in the matter.

  “I know he’d never understand our imperative, darling.” She smiled at Rosamunda.

  Rosamunda still wouldn’t look at her. She did agree with her, however. Jedediah Hardcastle was not a man who appreciated life’s finer things. He’d already proven it countless times.

  “Mr. Hardcastle would undoubtedly consider me foolish beyond hope for undertaking this arduous journey in order to mate you to Mr. Reeves’ Prince Albert. He simply doesn’t understand.”

  Rubbing the cake of soap vigorously up and down her other arm, Tacita wrinkled her brow. “Of course, he’s always had a large family at his command. I’ve only had you.”

  Rosamunda’s chin lifted from her paws. She didn’t turn her head. She did, however, wonder at the slightly sad tone which had crept into Mistress’s voice.

  “He’s right, of course.” Raising one leg and soaping a long white trail through the crusted dirt, Tacita frowned and said, “Imagine, having only a dog to love! Why how perfectly pathetic I must seem!”

  That brought Rosamunda to her feet, fury compelling her.

  Startled, Tacita dropped her soap. “Good heavens, darling! Why on earth are you growling so ferociously?”

  # # #

  Tacita answered Jed’s knock at the door clad in a dress he’d never seen her wear. He supposed that by her standards the gown was a mere nothing—a flutter of blue calico with a scrape of lace edging at the high collar and cuffs, simply made, and with nary a ruffle or a ribbon in sight. By Alamogordo—or Busted Flush—standards, the gown was a work of art.

  In the space of an hour or two, Miss Tacita Grantham had gone from looking like a bedraggled kitten to looking like a fairy princess again. Jed, observing her from his superior height, felt his mouth drop open, his eyes open wide, and his brain rattle.

  “‘Evening, ma’am,” he managed to choke out.

  “Good evening, Mr. Hardcastle.”

  For the life of him, Jed couldn’t think of anything else to say. His mind had shriveled up. Scolding himself for being a fool, he made a monumental effort, constructed another sentence, and spat it out.

  “I—I picked up the train tickets, Miss Grantham.”

  His mouth was so dry, his lips stuck together. He tried licking them and discovered his tongue was dry, too. His voice came out squeaky when he added icing on the cake of his hard-won conversational contribution. “We’ll leave tomorrow morning.”

  Lord on high. He’d forgotten how Miss Tacita Grantham could knock his guts and gizzard about when she was all spruced up. Not for the first time since they left Powder Gulch, he felt big and brutish and out of place. Come to think of it, he’d felt this way in Powder Gulch, too. As soon as he’d met her. At least he didn’t stink anymore.

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Hardcastle.”

  She looked up at him, thick eyelashes fluttering. They partially shaded her spectacular blue eyes and gave her a flirtatious expression Jed knew she didn’t mean. Not aimed at him she didn’t, anyway. Maybe at that sissy Englishman. The thought made him want to punch something, which seemed to un
stick his brain and make his words flow more easily.

  “You’re welcome ma’am.”

  He shuffled his feet and fidgeted with his hat. Then he noticed the semicircle of tooth marks in its brim, recalled the time that damned rat had lunged at his thumb, and dropped the hand holding his hat. Keeping an eye on Rosamunda in case she got any other crazy ideas, he said, “You want to have some supper in the hotel dining room, ma’am? It’ll be better’n what we’ve been eating on the trail.” He tried to smile and failed.

  “Yes, I expect it will be. Thank you, Mr. Hardcastle. I’d enjoy a good meal.” A brief smile visited Tacita’s lips. Jed had a hard time not to stare at them.

  “Reckon they got pretty good fare here in this hotel—better’n what you’ll be getting on the train, anyway.”

  “Really? I’ve always dined well on trains, Mr. Hardcastle.”

  She sounded short of breath. Jed wondered if the trip was finally getting to her. Until now, she’d held up remarkably well for such a little, inexperienced thing. “I expect you have. This ain’t—isn’t a New York special or anything, though. It’s just a trunk line to Santa Fe. They don’t have no—any fancy cooks on this train. It’ll be beans and beefsteak until we get to California, I reckon.”

  “Oh.”

  Jed had begun to read all sorts of meanings into that one breathy syllable until disgust at his own absurdity overcame him. He silently hollered at himself to stop being stupid. She was promised to that damned ridiculous Englishman and didn’t give two raps about a big Texas lummox like him. Besides, he was promised to Miss Amalie Crunch and that was that.

  Hell, even if neither one of ‘em was promised to anybody, it wouldn’t make any difference. There was no way on God’s green earth this fairy princess would ever think of him as anything but an uncivilized country hick. He reckoned he could be useful to her, maybe, and she might appreciate him for it, but he could never hope for more than that.