“Union or Confederate?” Five years was a long time to wander alone. Or to live inside a drunken haze. Anyone who said the war was over hadn’t served in it.
“Someone said he spent two years in a Union prison. I guess that’d make just about anyone crazy.” The sheriff shook his head. “You’ve seen the last of him. He ranges south of here, never goes north.” After a minute he added, “McCallister was a doctor before the war. At least that’s what I heard. Hailed from Atlanta.”
They talked a while about the herds outside of town and about the town’s booming growth, then Dal drove back to camp and let Grady help him carry provisions to the chuck wagon. Between trips back and forth, he told Alex what he’d learned about their visitor. She listened, sighing often, while he looked at the sky. Time was passing, and he was as eager as a sixteen-year-old to get back to the hotel and Freddy.
Alex touched his wrist. “Freddy is tough on the outside, but she’s vulnerable inside. Don’t do anything to hurt her, Dal.”
Surprised, he stared down at her. “Did Freddy tell you—”
She laughed. “Why is it that lovers think no one notices their long looks and whispers?”
A flush of color rose beneath his sunburned cheeks. “Freddy and I are not lovers,” he said stiffly. And one night in a hotel wouldn’t change that situation. In his opinion, lovers were a couple with some form of commitment between them. That wasn’t the situation here.
Alex gazed at him with an affectionate smile. “I didn’t like you when we first met. But you’re a good man. Freddy could do worse,” she added, glancing toward the observers’ camp where Caldwell was mounting his horse to ride into town. “Just don’t hurt her.”
He would have sworn that she would lecture him about morality and standards and ruining women. But she turned away and applied herself to the arduous task of pushing the wheelchair through the grass and over the bumpy ground.
He hesitated a moment, then walked up behind her and pushed her back to the chuck wagon. “I like you too, Alex Roark Mills,” he said quietly. “I didn’t expect to admire any of the Roark sisters, but all three of you are very special women.”
They smiled at each other, then she pressed something in his hand. “Give this to Freddy.”
He didn’t look at the bottle she’d put in his palm until he reached the outskirts of Fort Worth. She’d sent Freddy a little vial of perfume.
After leaving the buckskin at the stables, he walked to the barbershop for a haircut, a shave, and a hot tub. The sisters weren’t the only ones who were changing on this journey.
Certainly he’d never expected to spend a night with Freddy Roark. Or anticipated that he’d feel nervous about it. Never in his life had he applied himself to pondering and planning an evening or spent so much time trying to guess what a woman would consider romantic.
The responsibility of it weighed heavily on him. After his haircut and shave, midway through his bath, he drew on his cigar then looked over at the man soaking in the tub next to him.
“Women like romance,” he said, as if picking up an ongoing conversation.
“The decent ones do,” the man agreed with a nod. He tipped the ash off his cigar into his bathwater. “Makes it hard on a man.”
“Isn’t that the truth.” He exhaled a stream of smoke and watched it curl toward the ceiling. “In your opinion, what do women consider most romantic?”
“I don’t have a fricking idea.”
“Neither do I.”
“I believe they like flowers,” the other man said after a while. “And poetry.”
“Music, too, I’ve heard.”
Flowers, music, and poetry; it was enough to get him started. He’d do fine once they got to the actual lovemaking. It was that all-important buildup that concerned him.
“You’re Dal Frisco, aren’t you?” his bathing companion inquired.
“Who wants to know?”
“Name’s Hal Morely. I got a hundred bucks bet that you’ll get your herd to Abilene.”
He’d guessed right. A lot of people up and down the trail were watching and had an interest in this drive. Any doubt about staking his reputation on the King’s Walk drive vanished. His name, his livelihood, and his future all rested on winning this contest.
“We’re holding our own,” he said sourly.
Hal Morely stood and reached for a towel. “It might interest you to know that you got trouble coming. I saw a fella named Caldwell talking nose to nose with Hoke Smyth. Old Hoke’s been up before the judge three times for cattle rustling. Looked to me like Caldwell and Hoke were doing a little business.”
Dal frowned. “Thanks for the tip.”
Nothing would happen while they were camped this close to Fort Worth. Besides, right now he was more worried about a small green-eyed semivirgin who could turn him inside out with a look.
Chapter 17