In the bottom drawer she found a spare blanket, pulled it out,
unfurled it with one hard snap, and spread it on the floor. "This will be
quite comfortable, thank you!"
"Quite," he mimicked. He tried to squash his
anger. How had she managed to provoke him so easily? Taking his tobacco pouch
from the dresser top, he sat on the wooden chair near the window and rummaged
in his vest pocket for cigarette paper, still smarting at her reaction to his
perfectly respectable suggestion. If he wanted to be disrespectful, it sure as
hell wouldn’t be with a skinny chit like her.
She plopped herself down on the blanket. Facing away from
him, she pulled off a high leather boot and sock, then straightened her leg and
wriggled her toes.
A jolt hit him as he stared at her small foot and narrow
ankle. As she leaned over to the other boot, his gaze traveled to her tiny
waist and shapely hips. He jumped to his feet. The pint-sized room offered no
reprieve. He placed his tobacco sack back on the dresser and moved in front of
the window, looking out onto a narrow street. "You’re about how old now?
Eighteen?" he asked.
"Try twenty."
Twenty? Had it really been that long?
"Why do you ask?" she said.
He shrugged. "Nothing. Just curious."
"How old are you?" she asked.
He turned and faced her. "Why?"
"Same reason."
He walked to the bed, took the pillow, and tossed it over
to her, then sat back in the chair and lit his cigarette. "I gave up
counting birthdays years back. I’m twenty-seven or so, I guess."
"Really? I thought you were older."
His eyebrows lifted, but he said nothing.
She tucked the pillow against the wall, then scooted
around to sit with her back pressed against it, her legs stretched out and
crossed at the ankles. "Where do you hail from, McLowry?"
"South Carolina."
"You’re a long way from home."
"After the War, there was no more home."
Silence, then, "I’m sorry. I should have
realized--"
"It was a long time ago."
She ran her palms back and forth along the rough coarse
cotton of her trousers. When she spoke, her voice was hushed. "Time
doesn’t matter in something like that though, does it, Jess?"
He wanted to tell her he never thought about his boyhood
any more. Not about his parents, or his friends, or his little sister. But to
his surprise he, who had easily and readily told other women words they wanted
to hear, couldn’t lie to her. "Maybe not," he admitted. "But
time makes it easier to get through each day."
She went still and he saw in her eyes surprise that he
understood the struggle she was going through. Her gaze drifted away then,
unseeing, to that terrible world of memories.
He remained silent, taking in the measure of her, while a
caution grew within him. He couldn’t allow her too close. There was danger to
that. Danger in forming any attachment to another person, or in letting them
form one for you.
But despite his warnings, something about her was
burrowing deep.
Even that funny, short haircut of hers intrigued him. He
had a hunch that if she wore dresses and had long hair like other women, he
could deal with her like he did other women. Without a second thought. Instead,
here he was giving her second and third thoughts. He would be damned if seeing
her on that blanket, in trousers, a man’s shirt and bare feet wasn’t one of the
most tantalizing sights he had ever witnessed.
He ran his hand through his hair. Music from the dance
hall wafted up through the night air. He’s come to Bisbee to find card games
and whiskey. Seems he needed to add women to that list. Mature, available
women.
He stood up and strapped on his gun belt. "I’m going
out for a while, Gabe. You get some sleep."
She bent forward. "Isn’t it pretty late?"
"Not for me. I think I’ll play some poker."
"Ah, I see." She leaned back against the pillow.
"My pa used to go to town, too, for poker."
He couldn’t tell if she was serious or if she had other
ideas about what her father might have been going off to do.
unfurled it with one hard snap, and spread it on the floor. "This will be
quite comfortable, thank you!"
"Quite," he mimicked. He tried to squash his
anger. How had she managed to provoke him so easily? Taking his tobacco pouch
from the dresser top, he sat on the wooden chair near the window and rummaged
in his vest pocket for cigarette paper, still smarting at her reaction to his
perfectly respectable suggestion. If he wanted to be disrespectful, it sure as
hell wouldn’t be with a skinny chit like her.
She plopped herself down on the blanket. Facing away from
him, she pulled off a high leather boot and sock, then straightened her leg and
wriggled her toes.
A jolt hit him as he stared at her small foot and narrow
ankle. As she leaned over to the other boot, his gaze traveled to her tiny
waist and shapely hips. He jumped to his feet. The pint-sized room offered no
reprieve. He placed his tobacco sack back on the dresser and moved in front of
the window, looking out onto a narrow street. "You’re about how old now?
Eighteen?" he asked.
"Try twenty."
Twenty? Had it really been that long?
"Why do you ask?" she said.
He shrugged. "Nothing. Just curious."
"How old are you?" she asked.
He turned and faced her. "Why?"
"Same reason."
He walked to the bed, took the pillow, and tossed it over
to her, then sat back in the chair and lit his cigarette. "I gave up
counting birthdays years back. I’m twenty-seven or so, I guess."
"Really? I thought you were older."
His eyebrows lifted, but he said nothing.
She tucked the pillow against the wall, then scooted
around to sit with her back pressed against it, her legs stretched out and
crossed at the ankles. "Where do you hail from, McLowry?"
"South Carolina."
"You’re a long way from home."
"After the War, there was no more home."
Silence, then, "I’m sorry. I should have
realized--"
"It was a long time ago."
She ran her palms back and forth along the rough coarse
cotton of her trousers. When she spoke, her voice was hushed. "Time
doesn’t matter in something like that though, does it, Jess?"
He wanted to tell her he never thought about his boyhood
any more. Not about his parents, or his friends, or his little sister. But to
his surprise he, who had easily and readily told other women words they wanted
to hear, couldn’t lie to her. "Maybe not," he admitted. "But
time makes it easier to get through each day."
She went still and he saw in her eyes surprise that he
understood the struggle she was going through. Her gaze drifted away then,
unseeing, to that terrible world of memories.
He remained silent, taking in the measure of her, while a
caution grew within him. He couldn’t allow her too close. There was danger to
that. Danger in forming any attachment to another person, or in letting them
form one for you.
But despite his warnings, something about her was
burrowing deep.
Even that funny, short haircut of hers intrigued him. He
had a hunch that if she wore dresses and had long hair like other women, he
could deal with her like he did other women. Without a second thought. Instead,
here he was giving her second and third thoughts. He would be damned if seeing
her on that blanket, in trousers, a man’s shirt and bare feet wasn’t one of the
most tantalizing sights he had ever witnessed.
He ran his hand through his hair. Music from the dance
hall wafted up through the night air. He’s come to Bisbee to find card games
and whiskey. Seems he needed to add women to that list. Mature, available
women.
He stood up and strapped on his gun belt. "I’m going
out for a while, Gabe. You get some sleep."
She bent forward. "Isn’t it pretty late?"
"Not for me. I think I’ll play some poker."
"Ah, I see." She leaned back against the pillow.
"My pa used to go to town, too, for poker."
He couldn’t tell if she was serious or if she had other
ideas about what her father might have been going off to do.
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