her.
The church bell sounded just as she reached the depot; only fifteen minutes remained before Lennox would come looking for her. Schubert’s “Marche Militaire” faded from her lips.
Viola took a deep breath, wishing she had some idea of how to intrigue a man. Gracious, she didn’t even know what Donovan liked to do with his women. Perhaps he stroked his women somehow, although that didn’t sound sufficient to exhaust Pearl. At least his woman wouldn’t need to wait up to see him stagger home drunk or brew strange concoctions the next morning to sober him up.
How on earth was she going to strike a deal with him? Beg, plead, grovel?
If necessary, answered a little voice. She shivered but kept her chin up. Better Donovan than Lennox or an Apache. She might even learn why Pearl said he was “fine as dollar cotton.”
A different shiver rippled through her, setting off treacherous warmth between her legs. Perhaps he knew finger games, intimate play to bring pleasure and relaxation afterwards as she’d done for herself. What would his big hands feel like on her unprotected skin? Her breath caught as her nipples abruptly budded.
She bit her lip hard to break free of the fantasy. She licked away the resulting drop of blood and stepped briskly around the corner to approach the freight depot. Its mud-brick walls and buildings dated back to Rio Piedras’s founding more than ten years ago beside a handful of natural springs, one of them now enclosed beyond the main corral.
Donovan & Sons was busier than usual, with men working hard to load a series of wagons. Viola’s eyes passed over them quickly, seeking one particular fellow clad in a well-tailored suit. He could be found occasionally in a teamster’s rough garb but only when driving a wagon. His clean-shaven face was always a strong contrast to every other man’s abundant facial hair, such as Evans’s mustache.
Her eyes lingered on a dark head above broad shoulders, tugging hard on a wagonload’s embracing ropes. The right height and build, but red flannel? Then the man turned and Donovan’s brilliant blue eyes locked with hers.
Viola gulped and nodded at him.
His eyebrows lifted for a moment, then he returned her silent greeting. He strode toward her, still gentlemanly despite his dust, after a quick word to Evans. She was barely aware of his men’s curiosity.
“Mrs. Ross. It is an honor to see you here.” Her grandmother would have approved of his handshake but not his appearance. His black hair was disheveled, his clothing was streaked with dust, his scent reeked of horses and sweat.
And his shoulders looked so much more masculine under the thin red flannel than they ever had in English broadcloth.
She swallowed and tried to think logically. She was here to gain his protection, no matter what distractions his appearance offered.
William smiled down at Viola, curious why she’d come to the depot. Probably for money to return back East.
“May I have a word with you in private, Mr. Donovan?”
Poor lady, she sounded so awkward and embarrassed. “Certainly. We can use the office,” he soothed, and led the way across the yard. “Would you care for some fresh tea or coffee?”
“No, thank you. What I have to say should not take long.”
She must want a seat on the next stagecoach out of town, if the conversation must be fast. Buy her that ticket and she’d be gone in a day. Bloody hell.
William ushered her into the small room, bare except for the minimum of furniture, all solid, scarred, and littered with paperwork. Morgan’s numerous virtues didn’t include pushing paper to the Army’s satisfaction when his clerk was absent.
She accepted the indicated seat but was wretchedly nervous, almost fidgeting in her chair. He wanted to snatch her up and swear the world would never hurt her again, then hunt down Charlie Jones and his fool wife. William closed the wooden shutters on the single window, filtering out much of the light and
The church bell sounded just as she reached the depot; only fifteen minutes remained before Lennox would come looking for her. Schubert’s “Marche Militaire” faded from her lips.
Viola took a deep breath, wishing she had some idea of how to intrigue a man. Gracious, she didn’t even know what Donovan liked to do with his women. Perhaps he stroked his women somehow, although that didn’t sound sufficient to exhaust Pearl. At least his woman wouldn’t need to wait up to see him stagger home drunk or brew strange concoctions the next morning to sober him up.
How on earth was she going to strike a deal with him? Beg, plead, grovel?
If necessary, answered a little voice. She shivered but kept her chin up. Better Donovan than Lennox or an Apache. She might even learn why Pearl said he was “fine as dollar cotton.”
A different shiver rippled through her, setting off treacherous warmth between her legs. Perhaps he knew finger games, intimate play to bring pleasure and relaxation afterwards as she’d done for herself. What would his big hands feel like on her unprotected skin? Her breath caught as her nipples abruptly budded.
She bit her lip hard to break free of the fantasy. She licked away the resulting drop of blood and stepped briskly around the corner to approach the freight depot. Its mud-brick walls and buildings dated back to Rio Piedras’s founding more than ten years ago beside a handful of natural springs, one of them now enclosed beyond the main corral.
Donovan & Sons was busier than usual, with men working hard to load a series of wagons. Viola’s eyes passed over them quickly, seeking one particular fellow clad in a well-tailored suit. He could be found occasionally in a teamster’s rough garb but only when driving a wagon. His clean-shaven face was always a strong contrast to every other man’s abundant facial hair, such as Evans’s mustache.
Her eyes lingered on a dark head above broad shoulders, tugging hard on a wagonload’s embracing ropes. The right height and build, but red flannel? Then the man turned and Donovan’s brilliant blue eyes locked with hers.
Viola gulped and nodded at him.
His eyebrows lifted for a moment, then he returned her silent greeting. He strode toward her, still gentlemanly despite his dust, after a quick word to Evans. She was barely aware of his men’s curiosity.
“Mrs. Ross. It is an honor to see you here.” Her grandmother would have approved of his handshake but not his appearance. His black hair was disheveled, his clothing was streaked with dust, his scent reeked of horses and sweat.
And his shoulders looked so much more masculine under the thin red flannel than they ever had in English broadcloth.
She swallowed and tried to think logically. She was here to gain his protection, no matter what distractions his appearance offered.
William smiled down at Viola, curious why she’d come to the depot. Probably for money to return back East.
“May I have a word with you in private, Mr. Donovan?”
Poor lady, she sounded so awkward and embarrassed. “Certainly. We can use the office,” he soothed, and led the way across the yard. “Would you care for some fresh tea or coffee?”
“No, thank you. What I have to say should not take long.”
She must want a seat on the next stagecoach out of town, if the conversation must be fast. Buy her that ticket and she’d be gone in a day. Bloody hell.
William ushered her into the small room, bare except for the minimum of furniture, all solid, scarred, and littered with paperwork. Morgan’s numerous virtues didn’t include pushing paper to the Army’s satisfaction when his clerk was absent.
She accepted the indicated seat but was wretchedly nervous, almost fidgeting in her chair. He wanted to snatch her up and swear the world would never hurt her again, then hunt down Charlie Jones and his fool wife. William closed the wooden shutters on the single window, filtering out much of the light and
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