Rosamunda's Revenge Read online

  She’d sure as blazes never think of him in anything even resembling a soft or cordial light. Romance—the very word made Jed’s rugged, no-nonsense Texas innards rumble around unpleasantly, unless that was because he was hungry—was totally out of the question.

  “So, shall we go on in and have some supper, ma’am?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Mr. Hardcastle.”

  “It’s nothin’, ma’am.”

  In a gesture that would have done his ma proud—she’d tried her blessed best to teach him manners—Jed crooked his elbow and gulped when Tacita placed her teensy hand on his forearm. She tucked the bad-tempered terrier under her arm on her other side, for which he thanked whatever gods might be lingering over this crude territorial town.

  “You look—you look very handsome this evening, Mr. Hardcastle.”

  Jed resisted the impulse to shake his head and say “Huh?” He did find himself staring down at her bouncy blond curls—clean and shining again under a silly little flowery nothing of a hat—his eyes wide open in shock, before he managed to choke out a “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “I’ve never seen you in a suit jacket before. Why, I believe I’ve only ever seen you in those fringed buckskin clothes you wear so handsomely.”

  This time Jed did shake his head—hard. He refrained from uttering a “Huh?” only because his dry tongue was glued to his equally dry teeth. He recalled the shopping expedition he’d made earlier in the day—rushing through the shops in Alamogordo as if the demons of hell were after him. Then he considered the worn and stained buckskins he’d peeled from his dirt-caked body this evening and remembered conversations he’d had with his mother back home in Busted Flush.

  “Jedediah Hardcastle, these britches are a pure disgrace,” his ma had told him more than once. “And this shirt stinks to high heaven. Why don’t you wear real clothes? I’m sure no deer gave his life to a less worthy cause than these filthy, smelly things”

  Invariably, Jed had laughed, proud of his buckskins as a badge of his calling. He figured those lived-in ‘skins were what a city slicker wanted to see on a frontier guide. The good Lord knew, those city folks paid him enough to do the job. He figured the image went along with his employment. He also figured he owed it to the folks who bought his services to play his part to the hilt. Why, he already had a brand-new house and the beginnings of a fine horse-breeding operation established in this, his thirtieth year, because city folks were so blasted picky—or gullible—about such nonsense.

  Of course, the fact that he’d majored in business economics at Texas U. didn’t hurt his business prospects, either. Jed was a whiz when it came business matters. Thanks to his shrewd investments, his money was multiplying like rabbits even as he strolled to the dining room with Tacita Grantham. His buckskins had helped him earn that money. He’d always loved them for it.

  This afternoon, though, when he’d held his worn buckskins up to the light, he’d wrinkled his nose and pretty much decided ten years of use was enough for any self-respecting garment. One thing a body could say about buckskins: they never gave up on a man. But shoot, his britches could almost stand up by themselves by this time. And ripe? Sweet Lord have mercy. He guessed his old buckskins were due for retirement, even though he’d kind of miss ‘em.

  He’d decided, however, that he no longer wanted to appear—or smell—rough and frontiersish around Miss Tacita Grantham. He was glad he’d taken the time to go shopping. He had a hankering for her to view him in a more refined light.

  If there could ever be anything refined about a six-foot-four-inch former Texas Ranger and present-day frontier scout from Busted Flush, Texas, who was more at home camping out on the prairie than escorting a beautiful lady in to supper. Even in so wild a place as Alamogordo in the New Mexico Territory.

  With great effort, he forced out the words, “Thank you kindly, ma’am.”

  “You’re more than welcome, Mr. Hardcastle.” She twinkled up at him like his own personal star. He’d been about to compliment her on her own appearance, which was spectacular, but after her smile hit him he couldn’t remember how to talk. By the time they made it to the hotel dining room, Jed’s brain was a complete blank.

  Supper passed without incident, except when Rosamunda attacked the waiter and then lit into a diner for perceived slights to her person or that of her mistress.

  Jed would never understand that dog as long as he lived. He didn’t even want to, except he had a notion that if he could somehow unravel the mystery of why Tacita liked it—loved it—he’d be closer to understanding Tacita herself.

  Such understanding had become very important to him in the last several days. He wished it hadn’t. And he knew it was foolish even to hope, but he couldn’t help but harbor a tiny wish—a mere flicker, actually—that he might replace that animal in her affections one day.

  He went to sleep that night cursing himself for a betwaddled fool.

  Chapter 10

  “Mmmph.”

  Cesare Cacciatore Picinisco winced as he nudged his chin up another notch and lathered his cheeks. His bruises were but pallid blue-green memories by this time. His tooth still hurt when he poked it with his tongue, but his split lip had healed nicely. He hoped that after he shaved off the last of his beautiful black beard, neither Jedediah Hardcastle nor Tacita Grantham would recognize him as the drummer who’d snatched their ridiculously expensive dog.

  With the few dollars remaining of his funds—they were hidden right above the wheel well on his fancy wagon and, therefore, ignored by the unimaginative Farley Boskins—Picinisco had purchased a ticket on the trunk line from Alamogordo to San Francisco. He was going to get that animal back or die trying.

  He frowned, misliking the latter portion of his resolve. He was going to try very hard to get that animal back, is what he meant.

  He’d had to burgle a mercantile establishment in a small Mexican settlement a few miles south of Alamogordo in order to provide himself with money enough to store his mule and wagon in a livery and buy food on the train during his journey. He resented having to go to all this trouble to secure an animal which, if there were any justice in the world, would have been his long since.

  Breakfast in the train’s dining car would be his first big experiment. He figured Jed Hardcastle and Tacita Grantham would take their meals in the dining car. “After all,” he grumbled, feeling dreadfully abused, “they don’t have to worry about money.” If Jed and Tacita didn’t recognize him in at breakfast, Picinisco had every expectation of being able to perpetrate his latest scheme to snatch the dog with impunity.

  If they did recognize him, he’d have to jump off the train. He decided not to think about it.

  “I’ll get that dog,” he muttered as he carved a path through the thick stubble on his cheeks. He’d already scissored away the bushy part of his beard. Big hairy balls of it rested in the waste-paper basket at his side. He resented parting with his beard. He resented having to lay aside his colorful clothes and wear the uninspiring brown suit of an ordinary person. He resented every fading bruise on his cheek. He resented the almost-healed puncture marks made by that miserable dog’s teeth. He resented his still-bulbous nose. He resented the tooth he’d left behind on the desert.

  “I’ll get that dog,” he repeated, blaming Rosamunda for his losses.

  He decided to leave at least a remnant of his formerly beloved mustache. It was his last link to manhood, the one personal artifact standing between Cesare Cacciatore Picinisco and abject humiliation.

  # # #

  “Reckon you get to see an Indian on this trip after all, Miss Grantham.”

  Startled by Jed’s words, which were spoken quite wryly, Tacita clutched at his arm with one hand and tightened her grip on Rosamunda with the other. “What? Where?” Oh, dear, the train wasn’t being attacked, was it? Why, they hadn’t even left the Alamogordo city limits yet.

  “Yonder.”

  Glancing in the direction of Jed’s terse nod, Tacita felt her mouth drop op
en. She shut it again and didn’t know whether to smile at Jed’s little joke or be annoyed with him for teasing her. She decided to await circumstances before she did either. She did find herself gritting her teeth, and made an effort to relax.

  She said, “So I see,” and left it at that.

  Jed led her to a table in the dining car directly opposite the one occupied by the Indian to whom he’d referred. The fellow, his head wrapped in a tidy turban and his swarthy countenance animated, was seated across from a gentleman wearing a uniform Tacita did not recognize, although it seemed almost excessively military.

  “But you’re wrong, sahib, and I’ll tell you why that is the case.” The Indian man poked the table between himself and his traveling companion with a long brown forefinger. His expression was intense and his voice adamant. Tacita thought his accent was rather musical when compared to the rough drawls she’d been subjected to lately.

  “You’ll never get me to believe you,” said the other man, in an accent almost as aristocratic as the one belonging to Edgar Jevington Reeve. Tacita’s heart fluttered for an instant when she thought about Edgar, then stilled almost at once. Odd. She’d been used to delighting in long daydreams about him.

  Although she’d been reared to shut her ears to the conversations of others, her parents having warned her in particular about the rudeness of eavesdropping, Tacita couldn’t help but strain to listen. After a minute or two, she came to a conclusion that piqued her interest and made her listen even harder.

  Why, that fellow in the uniform was a British army officer; she’d stake her life on it. She’d read Mr. Rudyard Kipling’s wonderful stories, after all. And the other fellow was obviously an Indian—she shot a resentful glance at Jed, who was reading breakfast suggestions from a tattered menu and missed it—from India.

  A small dart of pain lodged in her heart when she thought about India. Her parents had been returning from a business trip to India when their ship had sunk in a storm. She sighed and decided eavesdropping, however rude, was preferable to unhappy reflections. Besides, it wasn’t every day a body got to listen to an Indian and an Englishman converse on a rustic trunk-line train in the Wild West.

  “Self-rule is the God-given right of all men, sahib. We have labored beneath the tyranny of the British for centuries. It is time for us to take our country back!”

  “Tyranny? Nonsense! You people proved yourselves incapable of self-government long since. Why, you weren’t even a unified country, but a mishmash of independent states constantly at war with each other before we brought you together as a nation. You lived in chaos. We British imparted a sense of order and unity to your benighted homeland.”

  “Not benighted, sir! Never benighted. We lived as we wanted to live.”

  “In filth and squalor?”

  “Squalor, my good fellow, is in the eyes of the beholder.”

  “Nonsense. You lived like heathens!”

  “I beg to differ. Not heathens, sir. We honor—we have honored for centuries and continue to honor—our own ancient and revered religions. Besides, heathen is as heathen does.”

  “Burning women on the pyres of their dead husbands? I call that heathen.”

  “Suttee is a sacred religious ceremony. Our women love the custom.”

  Tacita frowned and opened her mouth to refute the Indian fellow’s absurd assumption. Then she remembered she was eavesdropping and shut her mouth again.

  “Ridiculous! No woman would choose to die like that.”

  “That is where you are very, very wrong, sir.” The Indian man poked the table again. “Dying in such a venerable fashion assures a female’s place in eternity with the gods. It is a sacred custom and honored by our people. Besides, how else are women to atone for their stupidity and uncleanliness? They must do as they are told, being foolish creatures and unable to think for themselves.” He shrugged. “How else can such a silly thing as a woman get into heaven?”

  Tacita was beginning to dislike the Indian fellow a good deal.

  The Englishman said, “There. You see? Women are certainly foolish, prone to lunacy, and unable to think beyond breakfast, but that’s why they need us to protect them. Not to throw them onto funeral pyres.”

  She decided she didn’t like the Englishman any better than the Indian.

  “At any rate,” the Indian continued, “our customs are our own and are holy to our own religions.”

  “Ha! Religions? Buddha! Kali! Thuggee! You call those religions?”

  Tacita, who had read about the sect of Kali in several stirringly blood-thirsty novels, shuddered and listened harder.

  The Indian fellow screwed up his face. “Just because our philosophies differ from yours does not make them wrong.”

  “Philosophies? Superstitions, rather.”

  “The followers of our beliefs are as devout as those who adhere to yours, sahib.”

  “Followers? Bloody assassins, is what most of ‘em are,” muttered the Englishman. “We British brought order to the place.”

  “Against our will! Forcing us into your kind of governmental order against our will is tyranny and will not be tolerated forever. Mark my words.”

  The army officer shook his head and looked superior. Tacita decided his expression was entirely too smug for her taste. She frowned as she stroked Rosamunda’s once-more-silky fur.

  “Anything the matter, ma’am?”

  Jerking her attention away from the argument being carried on across the aisle, Tacita found Jed eyeing her with concern. She smiled, thinking how truly amiable a man he was, in spite of his great size and his tendency to bully those weaker than he. At least he wouldn’t toss a female onto a funeral pyre, Tacita felt sure; nor did he seem to believe that women were intrinsically of less value than men.

  “Oh, no. Nothing’s the matter.” She lowered her voice and leaned forward. “I was only trying to decide whether it was the accent or the uniform that makes that English fellow seem so arrogant.”

  Jed peered at the two men for a moment before he muttered, “My money’s on the accent.” Another second’s hard through brought forth, “Although that sissy red uniform don’t—doesn’t help none.”

  Her own little giggle surprised Tacita. “I expect you’re right, Mr. Hardcastle.”

  The train had left the station in Alamogordo at dawn’s first light. Jed had suggested taking breakfast on the train, before the supply of fresh eggs ran out. Tacita had agreed readily. Her tummy grumbled, and she eagerly anticipated a good hearty meal. Renewal of the hostilities across the aisle drew her attention once more.

  “Don’t be absurd, my good man. Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to tell me how introducing plumbing, refrigeration and sanitation to a backwards country like yours can be construed as evil.”

  Cocking her head, Tacita thought the British fellow might just have a point there.

  “But we did not ask for your sanitation! We did not ask for your plumbing! These things were forced upon us. If we had wanted sanitation and plumbing, we should have invented them for ourselves.”

  She decided the Indian fellow had a point, too, although she did think he might be stretching it a bit.

  “Besides,” the Indian added, “You didn’t give us those things. You stole our natural resources to satisfy your own greed and brought plumbing and sanitation into the country for the use of the British. In return you treat us like slaves. We natives can go hang for all the British care. In fact, many of us do.” He nodded as if he’d just made the most important point so far uttered in the conversation.

  Tacita gave her order to a harried-looking waiter in a stained apron, then leaned over the table to whisper to Jed. “Do you suppose that man is telling the truth, Mr. Hardcastle? Do you think the British really care nothing about the native Indians, but only about themselves?”

  Jed shrugged. “I reckon.”

  Blinking, saddened by such an assessment of her revered ancestors’ motivations—an assessment as unflattering as she suspected it was accurate—
Tacita sat back and petted Rosamunda more thoughtfully. Jed surprised her when he continued speaking. She was used to his phlegmatic utterances and was unaccustomed to hearing him explain himself without having to be asked first.

  “Reckon folks are pretty much the same the world over, ma’am. Don’t none of ‘em—that is, I don’t expect there’s many of ‘em care about other folks as much as they do their own kind.” He took a sip of coffee and shrugged again. “I ‘spect we’re just as bad. Hell—er—I mean, shoot, just look at the Indians in our country.”

  He watched her from across the table, his gorgeous brown eyes somber. She picked up her teacup, sipped and wrinkled her nose. She hoped she’d be able to find a decent cup of tea in San Francisco. She expected she would, since San Franciscans carried on so much commerce with the Chinese, and Chinese tea was almost as good as tea from India.

  “Yes. I remember a conversation we had once about Indians, Mr. Hardcastle.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “It seems like such a long time ago now.” Tacita smiled, recalling that day in Powder Gulch. It seemed a decade or so ago, although not even four weeks had passed. That was back before she knew Jedediah Hardcastle and still thought him rude, crude and unpleasant. She knew better now and wasn’t altogether happy about having found out she’d been mistaken.

  “Yes’m.” Jed slumped a little, and appeared discouraged. Then he sat up straighter, his attention caught by something in the back of the dining car. “What the . . .?”

  Tacita’s heart plunged wildly and she turned to look, too. “What is it, Mr. Hardcastle?” She didn’t notice anything alarming, thank goodness.

  Jed didn’t answer for a second or two. When Tacita returned her attention to him again, he shook his head and frowned.