Phoebe's Valentine Read online

  “Without skirts flappin’ around my ankles and draggin’ me down?”

  The little girl was beginning to think of the possibilities in his alarming suggestion, and Jack approved. Teach all the blasted southern gentlewomen to think for themselves, and the world would be a better place. A swarm of ugly memories arose to taunt him, and he had to shake his head to clear it.

  “That’s the way,” he told Sarah with a wink, commanding his brain to forget the past.

  “Come on, Sarah!” her brother cried, already shedding his own clothes.

  “Take good care of your sister, Bill. We men have to watch out for the ladies, you know.” It almost gave him indigestion to speak the words, but he figured calling upon a junior southern gentleman’s code of chivalry would not be out of order under the circumstances.

  “Yes, sir!” William grabbed Sarah by the hand and the two of them dashed off toward the water.

  Jack watched as William helped his sister out of her cumbersome petticoats and corset and smiled in spite of himself. They were cunning, those two. He liked them.

  As soon as he was sure the children were occupied, he unhitched the mules and hobbled them in a patch of grass. He gave them each a handful of grain and did the same for Lucky Strike. Then he spread a blanket for the prissy miss to sit on and built up a fire for their supper. After a quick check of his supplies, he decided he’d better go hunting while it was still light. After all, children needed good, nourishing food during their growing years.

  There were probably prairie chickens and rabbits all over the place around here, Jack judged as he took some shells from his ammunition pouch. Maybe even an antelope or two. He didn’t figure he’d need his derringer for a while, so he stowed it in its case in his saddlebag.

  Then he braced himself for his next ordeal. Marching around to the back of the wagon, he sucked in a deep breath and squared his shoulders in an effort to prepare for the confrontation he anticipated, during which he would attempt to persuade this aggravating woman to behave in a rational manner.

  He drew back the wagon flap and was unprepared for the sight that greeted his eyes. “Lordy.”

  Phoebe was curled up in a tight little ball as though to protect herself, one arm cradling her head. Her face was still flushed with heat. Now that she wasn’t yelling at him, Jack could clearly discern lines of worry and fatigue around her full mouth and across her delicate brow. He could also see dark smudges under her eyes, beneath the thick lashes gracing her cheek.

  She was way too thin, and he felt a surge of sympathy before he had a chance to stomp on it. The top three buttons of her bodice had come undone, exposing the soft swell of her plump bosom.

  You don’t need to notice things like that, Jack Valentine, he told himself irritably.

  Nor did he need to notice the pretty ankle and hint of shapely calf peeking out from underneath the skirt. He stepped nearer and peered more closely at that skirt. It was patched. Patched a lot.

  Almost against his will, he lifted the skirt to reveal her petticoats. It galled him to discover they were made from flour sacking. And her shoes looked to be at least two sizes too large. Although he cursed himself for a fool as he did it, he carefully untied the laces of those shoes and drew them off feet encased in stockings that owed more to mending than originality. He discovered the toes of her shoes were stuffed with rags.

  It was when his hand reached out to smooth her pretty brown hair away from her forehead that he caught himself and stepped away from the wagon. He stood there, fists on his hips, and glared at the creature sleeping so soundly inside her wagon.

  “Hell and damnation.” If there was one thing on earth he didn’t need right then, it was to feel compassion for this damned female.

  When Phoebe took that opportunity to moan softly and turn over, and Jack saw the stray tears still glistening on her lashes, his heart lurched, and he knew it was too late. He already did feel compassion for her. With a sigh of exasperation, he leaned over and scooped her up. He was more gentle with her than he wanted to be, but he couldn’t help it. Once his tender nature had been stirred, he was a goner. Jack just hated that quirk in his character.

  Nevertheless, he carried Phoebe over to the blanket as though she were made of the finest china. He was appalled when she sighed and put her arms around his neck. Her soft breasts, unencumbered by corset stays, pressed against his chest, and he could feel his eyes go round even as his unruly masculinity stiffened.

  Damn it all to hell and back again.

  Checking once again to ascertain the state of his supplies, he settled back against the trunk of a cottonwood and waited for William and Sarah to finish cooling off in the river. He wanted to make sure all of his urchins were safely settled in camp before he set out to hunt up their supper.

  His gaze kept straying to the sleeping woman, looking about as fragile and innocent as a woman had any right to look, and his disgust with himself was complete.

  # # #

  Phoebe had no idea how long she’d been asleep when William’s voice awakened her.

  “Be quiet this minute, Sarah! Jack told us he’d rip our tongues out and stuff them up our noses if we woke Aunt Phoebe.”

  Phoebe sat up with a jolt, and the sudden change in altitude nearly sent her keeling over again. With a hand covering her eyes to blot out the dots swimming there, and another bracing her body upright, she shrieked, “What did that wretched man say to you, William?”

  William jerked around and looked at his aunt, abashed. “Aw, Aunt Phoebe, he was only joshing. He just didn’t want us to wake you up, ‘cause he said you needed your rest.”

  “The brute! What a despicable thing to say to an innocent child.” Phoebe knew she was still unwell when tears of anger and frustration stung her eyes. She swallowed them. She absolutely refused to weep in front of the children.

  “He’s real nice, Aunt Phoebe,” added Sarah.

  Phoebe could only stare at the child for several moments before she whispered, “But he’s a Yankee!”

  Little Sarah bowed her head as though aware of having uttered a dreadful solecism.

  William cleared his throat and said, “Well, I reckon he’s a Yankee all right, Aunt Phoebe, but I ‘spect he’s one of the good ones.”

  With an open palm pressing her forehead and a feeling of dread invading her insides, Phoebe murmured, “There is no such thing, William.”

  “There’s no such thing as what?”

  Phoebe whipped around. Jack Valentine watched her, a brace of rabbits dangling from a big, leather-gloved hand. A rifle rested against a very broad shoulder.

  She positively hated the fact that she considered him a good-looking man, yet she couldn’t lie to herself. His appearance was exactly suited to her taste, except that he was definitely no gentleman. That one enormous flaw overrode all other considerations. As she glared at his handsome countenance, she felt as though she were looking upon the devil.

  “Aunt Phoebe says there’s no such thing as a good Yankee,” Sarah explained cheerfully, thereby winning a frown from her aunt.

  The glint Jack shot Phoebe did not make her feel any more comfortable. “Did she? Well, now, just what do you know about Yankees?”

  “Enough.” Phoebe turned to glare into the fire, unwilling to torment herself by staring at his face any longer. He’d rather bed a scorpion, indeed.

  “Why, Belle, is that any way to talk to the man who rescued you and who’s now going to feed you and take care of you and guard you all the way to Santa Fe?”

  “Yes. And my name is not Belle.” Phoebe felt her face get hot. She hated that this creature provoked the worst manners from her.

  “Since you’ve not yet told me what your name is, I reckon I can’t be faulted for making one up.” Jack sounded amused, and his amusement made Phoebe feel even hotter.

  “My name,” she said precisely, “is Miss Phoebe Antoinette Honeycutt, of the Atlanta Honeycutts. My mama’s family name is Forrest, and we’re from Charleston on that si
de. The Atlanta Honeycutts are not related to the Richmond Honeycutts. They came over much later than our family, and there’s a good deal of speculation about the line. I’m sure I don’t think they deserve to use the name at all. They’re a pure disgrace, the Richmond Honeycutts.”

  “Sorry I asked.” Jack flung their supper down.

  “And what, may I ask, is your name, sir?”

  Her voice was cold as ice, and Jack snarled, “The name’s Jack Valentine, Miss Honeycutt, of the upper New York State Valentines. Personally, I neither know nor care whether anybody else in the world is calling himself Valentine.”

  Then he proceeded to ignore Phoebe while he talked to William. “Since we’re the men of the family now, Bill, let’s take our rabbits over to that big rock and skin ‘em. We’ll let the ladies cook ‘em up for us.”

  With a deprecating frown for Phoebe, he asked, “That all right with you, ma’am? Mind if you get your hands a little dirty?”

  Phoebe considered her hands, which at the moment resided inside her thin cotton gloves, and said frostily, “Sarah and I shall be glad to cook for the four of us.”

  There was a too-long pause during which he stared at her rudely before he gave her a curt nod and said, “Good.” Then he turned and strode toward some rocks by the river. “Come on, Bill.”

  William scrambled up and followed him like a tame puppy dog. Phoebe knew she was recovering from her heat exhaustion when she caught herself frowning, recalled wrinkles, and ceased the activity.

  “Well, Sarah, while the gentlemen take care of preparing the game, let us see to the rest of the meal.”

  “All right, Aunt Phoebe.”

  “Now let’s see what we have here.”

  “Jack says we can have biscuits and rabbit, Aunt Phoebe,” Sarah told her eagerly. “And he already got the fire all set up.”

  “You call that creature Jack?”

  “That’s what he told us to call him. Said if we called him Mr. Valentine, he’d just have to skin the hides right off our backs.” Sarah giggled as she related Jack’s gruesome promise.

  “Great heavens.”

  Saints alive, the children were taking up with the enemy. She was losing control already, just as her mama used to fear about her. The youngest of five children, Phoebe had been told often by her ladylike but strong-willed mother that she must have run out of Honeycutt backbone by the time Phoebe came along. Now Phoebe had the depressing feeling her mama had been right.

  She would go to her death before admitting aloud to such a character defect, however. “If you must call him Jack, then you must. He is a Federal, after all, and their ways are strange to us. I expect you to never forget, though, young lady, that you must never call another adult anything but Mister or Miss or Missus. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sarah said, and Phoebe felt a little bit better.

  “Fine. Let’s begin to make the biscuits.”

  So the ladies made biscuits while the gentlemen skinned rabbits. The meat had already been spitted and was ready for the fire when Jack and William brought it over. As the biscuits cooked and the rabbits roasted, Phoebe discovered some lamb’s-quarters growing by the river. She picked a mess of them, too, and put them on to boil in a pot she suspected Jack had set aside for her use. As a lady, she knew she should have thanked him for making her chores easier, but she couldn’t force herself to thank him for anything.

  “This will be a fine meal, Sarah,” Phoebe announced with no little satisfaction as she peeked at her biscuits.

  All at once she realized that during the preparation of the meal her movements had been much easier than they normally were. She straightened, dismayed. “Oh, dear.”

  “What’s the matter, Aunt Phoebe?”

  Phoebe was charmed to discover Sarah eyeing her with affectionate concern. Perhaps she wasn’t a complete failure as a guardian if the children cared about her a little.

  Nevertheless, her confession to the girl was a difficult one. She cleared her throat. “Sarah, my dear, I do believe . . .” Her words gave out and she had to breathe deeply in order to continue.

  “You believe what, Aunt Phoebe?” Sarah’s eyes went round, her attention intense.

  In a rush, Phoebe finished her shocking declaration. “I believe it is easier for a lady who is traveling in a wagon across a great expanse of territory to do so without the constrictions of a corset.” There. The truth was out. Phoebe felt her face flame and wondered what her niece must think of her astonishing words.

  But Sarah showed no inclination to disparage her aunt’s bold confession. She nodded. “That’s what Jack said, too, Aunt Phoebe. Said that ladies who wear corsets across Texas are stupider than frogs. He wouldn’t let me put mine on again after we went swimmin’. Threw it up in a tree.” She giggled at the recollection.

  Phoebe stiffened in anger and was just about to let Sarah know once more exactly what she thought of their new companion, when she clanked her mouth shut.

  He was back. She watched Jack Valentine stride toward their camp, his easy gait attesting eloquently to his confidence—the confidence of a conqueror, Phoebe thought with distaste—and she decided to spare Sarah her opinions. She was irritated beyond measure to see William skipping along at his side, chattering away in delight. William saw her staring and quickened his pace, his bright expression a testament to his good cheer.

  “Aunt Phoebe! Jack let me pet his horse. He’s a real beauty. His name’s Lucky Strike because Jack won him in a poker game. Ain’t that swell?”

  “‘Swell,’ William, is a vulgar word which I do not expect to hear from your lips again. And if this person is a gambler as well as a brute, then I can only say, God help us all.”

  She felt guilty when William’s shoulders slumped and the jolly gleam in his eyes died. Swallowing with difficulty, she swore she wouldn’t back down.

  The evil Jack Valentine flopped himself down by the fire. She saw his blue eyes glitter when he said, “The old ways are dead, Miss Honeycutt. It’s time the boy began to live for today and plan for the future.”

  Phoebe felt forlorn when she stared into those wicked eyes and knew he was speaking the truth; that William’s future held nothing from a past she cherished.

  Chapter Three

  Jack was peeved that the biscuits tasted so good. And he was sorely aggravated to discover his starchy companion had taken the initiative to find greens and prepare them. Cooked up with a little salt pork the lamb’s-quarters went, unfortunately, very well with the biscuits and rabbits.

  He grumbled a sour, “Good supper, Miss Honeycutt.”

  Phoebe only lifted her chin higher.

  After they finished eating, there was barely enough light for Phoebe and Sarah to do the washing up while Jack and William fixed beds for the ladies in the wagon.

  “We’ll sleep outside by the fire, Bill,” he told the boy. “We’ll guard the camp while the women sleep in the wagon.

  “All right!”

  William sounded so excited, Jack couldn’t help smiling. His smile crinkled up when Phoebe’s shocked voice smote his ears. “I simply cannot allow that child to sleep out in the cold, Mr. Valentine. His constitution is delicate, and he should sleep in the wagon with Sarah.”

  “Aw, Aunt Phoebe,” muttered William, obviously embarrassed at having the subject of his delicate constitution brought up. “I ain’t been sick in a month of Sundays.”

  “Nevertheless, William, I promised your mama I would take care of you, and I intend to keep my promise.” Phoebe glared at Jack when she spoke.

  “Is that what you did when you were riding with Basteau, Miss Honeycutt? Let the kids sleep in the wagon?”

  Phoebe’s gaze dropped to her washing pot. “Yes.”

  “Must have been crowded in that little wagon with all three of you sleeping there.”

  “I slept by the fire, Mr. Valentine.”

  “Next to Basteau?” Jack smirked at the scalding look Phoebe shot him.

  “Aunt Phoebe w
hacked him on the head with a fryin’ pan, Jack,” Sarah told him with delight, as though she considered the circumstance fascinating and her aunt’s deed heroic.

  “That’s enough, Sarah.” Phoebe’s face colored in the firelight, and Jack found a certain sardonic amusement in the fact.

  “Did she now?”

  Phoebe shot Jack a look and his amusement grew.

  “You whack all your guards with frying pans, Miss Honeycutt, or just the southerners, like Basteau?”

  “Oh, she had to hit him, Jack, ‘cause he was tryin’ to get her.”

  “Enough, Sarah.”

  “He wasn’t a very nice man,” William observed. “And he kept suckin’ on a bottle all the time.”

  Jack watched Phoebe closely during the children’s revelations. His amusement dimmed when he realized how genuinely uneasy she was. He felt a little ashamed of himself for goading her, a reaction both uncommon and uncomfortable.

  In order to change the subject, he said, “Well, it’s been very warm lately, and this part of Texas is known for its dry, healthy climate, so I think if we’re real careful, Bill’s constitution won’t be damaged by sleeping outdoors. You and Sarah take the wagon, Miss Honeycutt.”

  “I am the children’s guardian, Mr. Valentine, and it is my duty to see that nothing untoward happens to either one of them. I believe I know what’s best for them.”

  “And I’m the guide on this journey now, and I say Bill sleeps outside with me. I don’t aim to argue with you about it.”

  “Fine, then. Don’t argue. My wards are my responsibility, and I say William sleeps inside.”

  She planted her fists on her hips, and Jack’s eyes narrowed as he looked at her hands. Phoebe caught him looking and tucked them under her apron.

  “But Aunt Phoebe, Jack says the gentlemen are supposed to guard the ladies. You always told me that, too.”

  “I know, William, and that’s the way it should be. But things simply aren’t the way they should be anymore, and I don’t like the idea of risking your health for a scruple.”