Comanche Magic by Catherine Anderson

  As he searched the handkerchief for a clean spot, she regarded him with a disgruntled look on her small face, clearly oblivious to the train of his thoughts. "I'm perfectly capable of mopping up by myself."

  "If you could see yourself, you wouldn't say that. The stuff you use around your eyes is smeared everywhere."

  "It is?" She scrubbed ineffectually at her cheek. "Where?"

  Chase couldn't help but chuckle. "You're just mak­ing it worse. Be still."

  Resigned, she turned up her face. Looking down at her, Chase knew he was lost. Prostitute or no, only a hard-hearted bastard could resist those eyes of hers. She huffed softly when he pinched the cloth over the tip of her nose. Chase bit back another smile, recalling all the times he had performed the same service for Indigo over the years. Was this girl really so very differ­ent? Just the fact that he was asking himself that ques­tion told him he was in deeper than he wanted to be, and what was worse, he no longer gave a diddly shit.

  "What are you doing here, Franny?"

  "I told you. I stepped over to see May Belle and—"

  "No, no." He gestured at the saloon. "Not out here, but here. You know, at the Lucky Nugget. How did you end up working the upstairs rooms?"

  Her lashes swept low. "I . . . um . . . that's really not any of your business."

  "Maybe I want it to be my business."

  As he said those words, it struck Chase that he sin­cerely meant them. The change seemed to have come from out of nowhere, so suddenly that he felt like a pendulum making radical swings from one extreme to the other. But when he thought about it, he knew that wasn't actually the case. From the first instant he had clapped eyes on this young woman, he had been fight­ing the feelings that were welling within him now. Possessive feelings. Protective feelings.

  Jesus. He needed a couple of gallons of Ma's coffee, and fast.

  She finally lifted her lashes again to look at him, her bewildered gaze revealing far more than she probably realized—confusion and a fear he couldn't quite fath­om. His interest in her terrified her, he realized. Life had clearly dealt her some cruel blows.

  Chase couldn't help but remember another pair of eyes that had been filled with pain and fear—lying eyes, he had believed then. Now, years later, here was Franny, with a face so sweet it caught at his heart and eyes that flashed messages her every action belied. Whore or angel?

  Though he had difficulty admitting it, even to him­self, Chase knew the answer to that question. The naked emotion he read in her expression couldn't be feigned. A victim, his father had called her, and Chase realized, almost too late, that she could be nothing else. Looking into her haunted eyes, only a fool would believe she had chosen this life.

  Once, so long ago that now there was no rectifying it, he had turned his back and walked away from eyes like hers. If he did the same again, he had a feeling he would be as doomed as she.

  Her face was fairly clean now, but loath to release her, Chase cupped a hand under her chin and continued to lightly dab at her cheeks as he studied her features. Finely arched brows, a small, fragilely bridged nose, a jaw so delicate that one blow from his open hand might shatter it. And her mouth. He had never seen such a vul­nerable mouth. Even now, it still quivered slightly with suppressed tears. Hers was one of the sweetest counte­nances he had ever had the pleasure of regarding.

  Searching her expression, Chase remembered what his father had said to him, that a man could leave the place of his childhood and travel forever only to discov­er he had actually gone nowhere. Earlier this evening, that hadn't made much sense to him. But now he thought he understood. He had been raised to be one of the People, and he could never escape that. If he tried, he would only run into a brick wall, in this case Franny.

  Looking down at her, he felt a little silly comparing her to a brick wall. But damn if she wasn't exactly that. An obstacle he couldn't shoulder his way through.

  As if she sensed his thoughts, she suddenly said, "I—I think I'd better go now."

  Dropping his hand, he glanced toward the saloon, his mind racing for a reason to keep her there, if only for a few more minutes. "Do you think Frankie is gone?"

  Her face fell. "P—probably not. I flipped the sign over to Occupied, but it'll take a while for Gus to realize I've closed up for the night. I usually receive callers clear up until one."

  Callers? That was a polite name for them. And she usually worked only until one? That was the time of night when most saloon-goers were just getting into the swing of things. "I'll wait with you then. This is no place for a woman to linger alone at night."

  He no sooner spoke than he recalled to whom he was speaking. Franny entertained drunks nightly. One chance encounter more or less shouldn't be a point of concern, to him or to her. As though she didn't see the absurdity in his comment, she shivered and hugged her waist, for all the world as if she had envisioned what might happen to her if left alone and found the thought abhorrent.

  Feeling inexplicably weary, Chase leaned back against the tree, taking advantage of the silence to study his companion. She looked about twelve years old standing there, chin aquiver, her slender frame swal­lowed in silk and lace. Like a small girl who had raided the attic trunks and dressed up in her mother's discard­ed boudoir finery, a tad lopsided because she wore only one slipper. He noted that she seemed uncommonly nervous in his presence, yet another mysterious revela­tion to bewilder him. He had the same equipment other men did. Wherein lay the threat?

  Chase smothered a grin. He supposed standing out behind the saloon with a man wasn't her usual routine. In these circumstances, it must be a little difficult to transcend reality by dreaming, a fact he determined to remember. If—no, when—he was with her again, he wouldn't allow her to escape into oblivion. Which probably meant he was destined to become the bane of her existence.

  That thought gave Chase pause and forced him to step back and analyze his intentions. A futile exercise. Damned if he knew what his intentions were. He had marched over here—well, maybe staggered was a bet­ter word—to offer an insincere apology to please his father and sister. Now they were the least of his con­cerns, and he was thinking ahead to when he might see Franny again.

  Crazy, so crazy. Hell. Maybe insanity ran in his family.

  "How long do you think we've been out here?" she asked suddenly.

  Chase jerked himself back to the moment. She wasn't the only one who could get lost in daydreams. Fumbling for his pocket watch, he withdrew it and peered at the shadowed face. "Ten minutes, maybe?"

  She heaved a disgruntled sigh. "It seems like longer."

  Not to Chase. He touched a knuckle to her sleeve and smiled. "You cold? I've got heat to spare if you are."

  She cast him a startled look and withdrew a step. "I'm not in the least cold."

  "Then why are you shivering?"

  She fiddled with her wrapper sash and then hugged herself again. "I didn't realize I was."

  Her voice was pitched so low, her enunciation so hesitant, that Chase wondered how often she actually spoke with men. Not that he could conceive how she could be in her profession without conversing with customers. "Are you bashful, Franny?"

  Another startled look came his way. "Pardon?"

  Chase graced her with the grin he'd been practicing in front of a mirror since adolescence. His rakish best, lopsided and mischievous, designed and precisely exe­cuted. "You are bashful. I haven't seen a girl blush so pretty in a coon's age."

  She blinked. It wasn't the reaction he'd been aiming for.

  "I frighten you, don't I?"

  "Yes."

  Again, it wasn't his aimed for response. Surprised at how freely she admitted it, he said, "Why?"

  She gazed up at him for a long moment, her eyes a mirror of confusion. "I-I'm not sure. You just do."

  "I'm Indigo's brother, remember. What better rec­ommendation do you—"

  "You aren't sweet like Indigo."

  Disgruntled, he retorted, "Says who?"

&nb
sp; She rolled her eyes. "Don't be silly. You know you're not. Indigo is—" She broke off, and her expression soft­ened. "Indigo is like no one else I've ever known."

  Chase gave it up. "She is a very special person."

  "Yes," she agreed in that same hesitant way. "Very special. She's the best friend I've ever had. I would trust her with my life. Even the wild animals love her."

  "They like me just as well." Chase felt ridiculous for having said that. He sounded like a boastful child. "At least they used to."

  She looked dubious.

  "Hey—I used to have hordes of them hanging around when I was a kid. Coons, deer. I even had a pet rattler once."

  She shuddered.

  "He didn't bite." Mustering the good grace to laugh at himself, Chase added, "And neither do I." He shrugged. "I know I gave you a hard time this morning. I'm really sorry about that. I hope you won't hold it against me forever. If possible, I'd like us to be friends."

  "Friends?"

  She clearly found the prospect alarming, which ran­kled. "Yes, friends. What's wrong with that?"

  Her gaze darted to his. Chase wanted to reassure her, to tell her she had nothing to fear from him, but judging by the things he read in her eyes, he might be more of a threat to her than he cared to think.

  "I-I think I'd better go now," she said shakily.

  He drew out his watch again. "It's only been twenty minutes, tops. Do you think Frankie will be gone?"

  "Probably. Boys that age aren't long on patience."

  Boys? Chase raised a questioning eyebrow, which she ignored. "You'll be taking a risk."

  "I'll check before I go in. Those horses out front belonged to him and his friends. I recognized Moses."

  Chase didn't remember seeing any horses, but then he hadn't had eyes for much of anything but Franny's legs. "Moses?"

  "Our hor—" She broke off. "Moses is Frankie's horse."

  Because he obviously made her so nervous she couldn't think clearly, she had nearly divulged infor­mation she didn't wish to reveal. A good indication, that. When it came to digging information out of her, he might have an edge.

  Stepping back to give her the space he sensed she needed, he said, "Well, I guess this is good night then."

  She nodded, clearly at a loss for anything else to say. After a moment, she whispered, "Thank you for help­ing me down from the roof."

  "My pleasure." And he realized it had been a rare pleasure indeed.

  As she started to move, she glanced down, and even in the dim light, Chase saw the dismay that swept across her face. Fastening horrified eyes on the saloon building, she clamped both palms over her chest. "Oh, lands!"

  "What?"

  "I've been so preoccupied thinking about the close call with Frankie, I never even thought! How shall I ever get back to my room?"

  Chase could see she was distressed, but for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why. "The same way most folks do? By the door?"

  "Like this?" She indicated her apparel. "Oh, what a pickle."

  Doing his best to keep his expression solemn, Chase regarded her clothing. The girl was wrapped in enough layers to be mailed long distance. He supposed it was the type of garments she wore that concerned her, not the lack. Reaching to his waist, he untucked his shirt-tails. "You can borrow this."

  Wincing, he drew the shirt off over his head and held it up in front of her. The tails reached nearly to her knees. "See? It'll cover you."

  She gave him an incredulous look. "Truly? But then you'll be—" She jerked her gaze from his bare shoul­ders. "I can't take your shirt."

  "Why the hell not?"

  "Well, because. You'll have nothing to wear."

  "Hey, my father goes without a shirt half the time. I'm Indian, remember?" That was a new twist, his reminding a woman of that fact. "Besides, I've only got to go as far as home. It's dark. If anybody sees me, I'll stagger a little, and they'll just think I'm drunk."

  "You are drunk."

  She had him there. Chase pushed the shirt into her hands. "Yeah, well, I had a rotten day." As he spoke, he recalled his reason for approaching the saloon in the first place and decided he hadn't said nearly enough by way of apology. "Which reminds me, Franny. When I ran into you, I was on my way over to talk to you."

  She looked wary. "About what?"

  "I wanted to apologize."

  "You already did."

  "Not the way I should. Those things I said—about me getting folks up in arms against you if you kept see­ing Indigo. I didn't mean it."

  "She sent you, didn't she?"

  Because he didn't want to hurt her any more than he already had, Chase was tempted to lie. For reasons he had no time to analyze, he resisted the urge. "Actually, it was my father who sent me."

  "Your father?"

  "Yeah." His throat felt raw with an emotion he couldn't quite identify. He only knew he wished he had decided to come on his own accord. Or better yet that he hadn't said such vile things to her in the first place.

  "You needn't apologize," she said softly. "I know you were only watching out for Indigo. If it had been me, I would have done the same." She gave a little shrug. "Truth to tell, I'm surprised Jake hasn't run me off. I'm not exactly fitting company for her and the lit­tle ones. I know that."

  The pain in her expression made Chase feel ashamed. By good measure, he was responsible, but for the life of him, he couldn't think of anything to say that might undo the damage he had wrought. "Ah, Franny. I'm sorry."

  She flashed a shaky smile. "Don't be. I love Indigo, too. Feeling protective of her is one thing we have in common."

  The way Chase saw it, Franny was the one who needed protection. From heartless assholes like him. "I want you to forget what I said and visit her all you like. Seriously."

  She gnawed her lip, eyeing him suspiciously. "I'm afraid I don't understand your change of heart."

  That made two of them.

  "You're sure you won't change your mind?" she pressed. "I don't want any trouble. For reasons I don't care to divulge, it's very important that I keep gossip about me at a minimum."

  "I'm positive. You won't get any trouble from me, I promise you."

  Her gaze clung to his for a long moment. Then she finally nodded. "All right then. Heaven knows I would have missed seeing Indigo and the children. They're a bright spot in my days."

  Chase had a feeling they might be the only bright spot. "Am I forgiven?"

  A fleeting smile touched her mouth. "Yes. Of course you are."

  That smile. As hesitant as it was, it warmed him clear through. He inclined his head at the shirt she held. "You'd best get that on before you forget."

  "Oh."

  She gave a nervous laugh and drew the garment over her head. Chase helped her get it turned right then fished her arms down the sleeves, tugging on the cuffs of her wrapper so they wouldn't be bunched above her elbows. Her long hair was caught under the neckline, and he gathered handfuls to free it. The curls he grasped felt like wire.

  "Jesus Christ. What's on your hair?"

  She sputtered to get a stiffened tendril out of her mouth. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she said, "Starch."

  A chuckle escaped him before he could swallow it back. "Starch?"

  "Laundry starch. My hair won't stay curly without it."

  Chase wondered how she kept from poking out her customers' eyes, but he didn't voice the question. Starch? He could use that hair of hers to string fence. "I see," he said, only, of course, he didn't, not at all. If her hair wouldn't hold curl, why didn't she just leave it soft and natural?

  He bent to tug the tails of his shirt down over the multiple layers of lace and silk. "There. You could attend Sunday meeting now."

  "Hardly." She gave the shirt a final tug. "But thank you all the same. At least it helps." Looking up at him, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth again. Even in the moonlight, he noted the slight flush that touched her cheeks as she extended her hand to him. "I'm indebted to you, Mr. Wolf."<
br />
  "Chase."

  "Yes, well." Her flush deepened. "You have my eter­nal gratitude."

  He grasped the tips of her fingers and slanted his thumb lightly across her knuckles. "Like I said, the pleasure was all mine."

  She withdrew her hand from his and turned to go. With the first step, she lurched. Remembering that she wore only one slipper, Chase smiled. Watching her cross the yard to the saloon, he marveled that she maintained any semblance of dignity, but somehow she did, lopsided gait and all. Dressed as she was, his over­sized shirt over the lot, she should have looked ridicu­lous, especially with that hair springing like coiled wire in every direction.

  She stopped at the front of the saloon to peek around the corner. Apparently satisfied that the mysterious Frankie was gone, she waved good-bye and disappeared.

  6

  For a long while, Chase gazed after Franny. When he finally roused himself enough to walk home, he could see dim light spilling from the downstairs windows of his parents' house. Beacons of welcome. His mother, bless her heart, had left the lantern lit for him. Because he had missed supper, he knew he'd probably find food set out on the table. No matter that he had missed the meal only because he'd been too busy getting sloppy drunk in the backyard to join his folks at the table.

  Sometimes he wished his parents would be a little less forbearing. It'd be easier that way. As it was, he felt guilty as hell for the way he'd behaved tonight and even worse about the lousy things he'd said to his father. He needed a good ass-kicking sometimes. But that wasn't Hunter Wolf's way, never had been, never would be.

  Home. As Chase closed the front door behind him, he leaned back and surveyed the room. To his left sat his mother's prized Chickering piano, shipped from Boston around the Horn and hauled from Crescent City by his father in a wide-tread wagon. The well-polished rosewood shimmered in the lantern light, testimony to the hours Loretta Wolf had spent protecting its finish with wax.

  It was a house that was well-loved, as were all those who dwelled within it. Everywhere he looked he saw evidence of his ma's busy hands, from the braided rugs arranged colorfully on the bleached puncheon floors to the crocheted scarves on the horsehair furniture. On the wall above the settee hung their family portrait, taken years ago by a photographer named Britt in Jacksonville.