in black as thick as a velvet curtain save for a soft glow of light from inside the tiny cabin. He pulled up and listened for hoofbeats.
Nothing. He could hear chickens scrabbling in the crude shelter Jeanne had nailed together, and now and then a spurt of melody from an evening song sparrow somewhere in the maples. All seemed peaceful save for intermittent rustling among the lavender bushes. Rabbits, maybe?
But no Montez. He peered through the darkness at the trail that led down to the gate, but he could see nothing. He’d best pick his way down the hillside and check the—
A thin cry floated up to him from the direction of the cabin. Then another, this one sounding choked off.
He kicked General hard and let the gelding find its own footing through the blackness. At the bottom where the trail leveled off he didn’t stop to dismount; he jumped the horse over the gate and pounded up the narrow path toward the cabin.
Chapter Six
In the circle of light from the cabin Wash spied the back of a tall, dark-shirted man bent over something. A blue gingham ruffle poked from between his legs. A woman’s choked cry stopped his breath, and then he heard the crack of a palm against flesh. The man twisted away, one hand pressed to his flaming cheek.
“Ow! You hellcat…”
Sounded like she’d lambasted him a good one. Wash couldn’t help but congratulate her.
Montez lunged at her. “You think I am not good enough for you, is that it? Because my skin is not white, like yours?”
Wash sprinted onto the porch, caught the attacker’s thick shoulder and spun the man toward him. Then he smashed his fist into the side of the Spaniard’s jaw.
Montez dropped like a felled tree and rolled off the porch. Wash peered over the edge at the crumpled form on the ground and tried not to smile. Out cold.
“Is… Is he killed?” Jeanne quavered from the cabin doorway.
“Naw.” He turned toward her. She was trembling so violently the ruffles down the front of her gingham shirtwaist fluttered. She gazed at him blankly.
“Jeanne.” He stepped in front of her to get her attention.
“Did he hurt you?”
“Oui. H-he take my wrist, so.” She extended her arm. A crimson handprint bloomed on her skin.
“Manette? Is she safe?”
The ghost of a smile flitted across Jeanne’s lips. “Oui. She hides in the ch-chicken house. I send her there when that m-man knocks on my door.”
Wash stared at her. She might be shaken, but she’d showed admirable presence of mind in the face of danger. He’d seen army lieutenants fold up under less.
But her face was still white as chalk, and suddenly she sank onto the porch in a froth of white petticoats.
“Oh,” she exclaimed. “Forgive me, but I c-cannot…”
Wash extended his hand. He pulled her up so close to him he could smell the spicy-sweet scent of her hair and an odd, hungry feeling burrowed into his gut.
Damn. He ached to pull her into his arms. Something about this woman made him aware of how lonely he was. How hungry he was.
He wanted her. Hell’s bells, any man would want her. But with Jeanne it was more than that. He liked her looks, her spirit. Liked her oddly inflected words. He liked talking to her. Jumping jennies, he just plain liked the woman.
He swallowed hard. “What did Montez want?”
One hand flew to her throat. “He…he wanted to kiss me.”
Wash could sure understand that. Kissing her was something he himself had been thinking a lot about for the past two days. And nights.
A stifled groan floated up from the ground. Wash stepped off the porch and straddled the Spaniard. Dragging him upright by the back of his shirt, he planted a boot in his backside.
Damned randy snake.
“Get out of here, Montez. And don’t come back. Pick up your pay from Rooney at the saloon.”
Without looking at him, the Spaniard slouched unsteadily down the path and through the gate.
Wash couldn’t look at Jeanne; he felt responsible. But she pinned him with an unflinching eye. “I do not like that those men come here.”
Wash blew out a long breath. “Those men are my work crew for the railroad that’s coming. A different crew will be here in a day or two to start clearing brush.
“Brush? What brush?”
Wash hesitated, gazing out into the darkness, envisioning Jeanne’s lush fields of lavender glowing in the sun. God help him, he couldn’t say it. Couldn’t tell her the clearing crew was getting paid to chop down her precious crop.
“Brush,” he echoed. “You know, tickle grass and small trees.” He shot a look at her face. “Anything that’s uh, in the way of laying track.”
She turned to him, eyes narrowing. “I will not have such men at my farm.”
“Jeanne, don’t you understand?” Anger hardened his voice. “It isn’t your farm. This land belongs to the railroad.”
He kept a tight rein on his nerves and watched her mouth turn down, the light in her eyes dim. Maybe she’d cry or something. Her farm had to go. He expected her to crumple in the face of her impending loss. Instead she straightened her shoulders and bit her lower lip.
“Jeanne, don’t you see? Many people will benefit from the railroad.”
She began to crease tiny folds in her muslin apron. “No, I do not see,” she blazed. “I and my Manette, we will not benefit! Do we not matter here in America?”
“Sure, you matter,” Wash growled. “Every citizen matters. That’s what this country is built on.”
“But that is not true! If many people want one thing and two people do not want it, the many will win. Is that not so?”
Wash cleared his throat. “Well, uh, yeah. That’s democracy. The majority rules.”
Her chin came up. “But is that not unfair to the not majority people? To the two that wanted something else?”
He swallowed. Now that he thought about it, yeah, it did seem unfair.
Jeanne propped her hands at her waist. “So, I and my daughter should be pushed out of our home because the people in town want a railroad, yes?”
She had a point, all right. What happened to the rights of a single individual under majority rule? Hell, he was a lawyer; he should have an answer. A war had just been fought between the North and the South over the right of a single state to secede from the union against the will of the government. So what gave Grant Sykes the right to decide that Jeanne Nicolet was not important and his Oregon Central line was?
Money, that’s what. Ownership of the land. Sykes and the Oregon Central owned this land. The whole mess made his head ache.
“Well?” she demanded. Her eyes took on the most intriguing color he’d ever seen, kind of like green tree moss after a punishing rain. But they weren’t soft like moss; they were hard as agate.
“All I know is that the railroad is coming through here. You have to get out of the way.”
She gave him a long, steely look. “I will not move,” she announced through tight lips. “Not until I harvest my lavender.”
Good Lord, her precious lavender. This woman was the most single-minded female he’d ever encountered. His mother had been stubborn, but Jeanne…Jeanne was unmovable as a brick wall.
He reached out to touch her arm. “Jeanne, listen.” Under his fingers the smooth