7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

B reakfast was a quiet affair in the little hostel's nondescript dining room. Isa self-consciously ate the poached eggs and leftover sausage Mrs. Meyer had served them while thinking of Junior's bare, golden skin. She could still smell the Ivory soap on him. The fresh scar marring his side had stood out in the morning light, and she'd itched to touch it. She wanted to ask a thousand questions about the injury but rejected the idea like a column of incorrect sums. Junior would tell her to mind her own business and stop being a Peeping Tom. Battling between her curious nature and newfound embarrassment, she didn't look above his hands while they ate; the callused skin was dry and cracked.

Isa's confidence returned on the road east. Dressed in a slicker protecting her split skirt, sage-green blouse, and gun belt, Isa turned her face toward the sun breaking gradually through patchy cloud cover. She'd shoved the ridiculous hat Miss Pickney had insisted she wear into her gunnysack, and her long, honey-gold hair lay in a thick braid behind her back.

She needed a hat. A real hat, not one made of flowers and bird nests.

"Are we going through Brenham?" Isa's voice disrupted the hour-long silence. "Or are we going to take another cut road?"

"Why?" Through his bandana, Junior sounded put off. He hadn't looked at her since their bedroom stalemate.

"Because I need a hat," she said, irritated by his prickly mood.

Long-lashed eyes shifted to her, running over the flyaway hairs that had broken free of her braid. His gaze traveled to the enormous yellow oilcloth slicker she wore in case it rained; its corduroy collar was unbuttoned as she couldn't bear for things to touch her throat. Despite the sun's weak yellow rays highlighting the vividly colored trees that bracketed the narrow lane, a miserable drizzle quenched thirsty mud in grooved ruts and deep puddles along the road. Sunshine and rain. The devil's beatin' his wife, Sol would say.

Finally, Junior shrugged a reluctant acquiescence. Isa brightened.

Brenham was a growing town with factories puffing smoke in the distance, grand Victorian houses within white picket fences, and an ornate city hall. Isa peered around with interest as they crossed a little wooden bridge on Pecan Street. Above a storefront hung a distinguished bottle-green sign with "W.T. Carrington, Groceries" written in yellow paint. Isa reined Mirage toward its hitching post.

"I'm going to get a few things here."

"Alright. Meet me at the barber. I need a shave." Junior scratched beneath his bandana with a forefinger.

"Tired of the fleas?" she asked innocently, dismounting.

"Yeah, probably caught them from you," he said over his shoulder, heading toward a barber shop's red, white, and blue pole down the street.

The bell above the door tinkled when she entered the store, much like Hobb's General in Dogwood, and the familiarity soothed the disquiet of traveling. The interior of the brick building was spacious, its shelves laden with goods in eye-catching colors and shapes. Fiddling with her reticule, Isa wandered around until she found a little section of hats: bowlers, felt with creased crowns, and bonnets with happy ribbons.

A thin man with a gleaming bald head watched her, his impressive mustache not quite hiding the slack, open mouth beneath. "Can I help you, miss?" he asked, peering up at her.

At ease with being observed like a sideshow, Isa gestured to the hats. "Are any of those Stetsons?" They clearly weren't, but she prayed he had some stocked in the back room.

"Uh, no, ma'am. But they're good quality."

While he combed through the wide-brimmed hats for an appropriate size, Isa glanced through the rack of medicinals on the counter. A tin of cream advertised that it soothed rough, cracked hands. She snatched it up, reading the label.

The kindly man moved behind the counter, a hat in hand. "That stuff is real good in the winter. Better than that horse liniment people use."

Isa paid the fee, shoved her new coffee-brown hat on her head, and slipped the hand cream into her reticule.

Mirage stood rigidly at the hitching post, her eyes rolling. Eyeing the mare suspiciously, Isa stowed her reticule in a saddlebag and untied the reins.

"What's gotten into you?" Isa muttered when Mirage jerked her head away from a pat. "Burr under your saddle?" Erring on the side of caution, Isa walked the mare across the street to the barber shop instead of mounting her right away. The circus horse wasn't used to this much travel, and in bad weather, to boot.

"If you'd gotten on the train, we wouldn't be in this mess," Isa informed her flighty companion as they sidled beside Junior's big dapple-gray gelding.

"Talking to yourself?" asked a deep voice. Junior walked around the pack mule.

Isa glanced up, chagrined at being caught talking to her horse. Her mouth went dry. Junior's hair was trimmed and cut square at the nape. Thick golden layers brushed back from his forehead in waves. His tawny beard was gone, revealing devilish dimples and a cleft chin. Isa had teased him for it once, saying God gave him two rear ends instead of one. Unfortunately, her ma had overheard, and she was still haunted by memories of scrubbing Granny's bedpan that month.

With his strong jaw and chiseled features, Junior Stone was handsome as sin.

"I forgot how ugly you are," she lied to cover up her staring.

Junior startled her again by throwing his head back and laughing. A group of women across the street stopped as one to look. Isa impatiently shook her head at the downfall of womankind's pride around men like Junior. She shoved her muddy boot in the stirrup and mounted Mirage; right away, the horse sidestepped, tail swishing.

"Someone's full of vinegar," Junior mused, mounting his docile gelding.

"She's spoiled and intractable," Isa grunted once seated, and was turning Mirage in a tight circle when the mare attempted a school jump on two feet. "Oh, no, you don't, you little hoyden."

Casually, Junior said, "I had a helluva time saddling her this morning. Kept stealing my gloves out of my pocket."

Isa wasn't listening. The group of women ogling Junior had stopped again to stare openly at the young rider on the recalcitrant horse. Fisting the reins, Isa settled more firmly in her saddle with boot heels securely wedged in the stirrups and steered the black mare toward the center of Pecan Street. Mirage sidestepped again and reared. Molars grinding, Isa leaned over and whispered in the horse's pinned ears, "You're acting plumb embarrassing."

It was true. Not much embarrassed Isa, but appearing as if she couldn't control her mount in a busy street full of people? It was about the worst thing she could think of, even more so than facing Junior across the bed that morning. Speaking of Junior, he probably wouldn't let her live this little street debacle down.

The drizzle remained steady as they trotted out of town. Isa knew all her corrective maneuvering must look preposterous. She was a giant eyesore in her bright yellow slicker, sitting atop a black Arabian who insisted on charging forward, rearing, and running ahead of Champion. After each appalling misconduct, Isa would mercilessly turn the mare in fast circles, whispering profanities. They weren't a mile out of town before Mirage was winded, head low and blowing, her ears close to her head. Isa was no longer cool and collected. Her hair fell down in long, limp strands, her teeth were bared, and her cheeks were full of angry blood.

Junior watched cautiously from his side of the road, stoic but poised and ready to lunge forward on Champion to help. After observing her from his saddle for the dozenth time while Mirage was put through her paces, he called out, "At this rate, we'll get home by Christmas."

"Feel free to offer assistance," Isa barked after spitting another round of invectives at her misbehaving horse. "She's just being diffi—whoa!"

Mirage, seeing a window of opportunity, bolted.

Behind Isa, Junior cursed, and Champion's hoofbeats pounded in tandem with Mirage's. Although an excellent rider, Isa struggled to keep her mare on the path. They were slowly veering toward a stand of trees on the right side of the road.

"Whoa, whoa!" Isa screeched, pulling on the reins with all her strength. Head high and at an awkward angle, Mirage gracelessly jumped over the narrow ditch on the side of the path, and Isa's stomach floated into the recesses of her ribcage for a breathless moment before jolting harshly down again.

"Isa!" Junior roared behind her. She hardly heard it.

A thick, low oak branch, mossy and black from constant rain, loomed chest-high before them. Junior shouted another warning, but Isa disregarded it. What did he think she was going to do? Get herself killed? Grunting, Isa jumped from Mirage and rolled into the high, wet grass to offset the impact. Her expensive Arabian mare was an onyx blur under the low branch, barely clearing the space beneath it. Full of adrenaline and violence, Isa scrambled from her improper sprawl in the grass, a shock of bright yellow against lush green.

"Izzy!" Junior shouted, halting his gelding and pulling a boot from the stirrup as though to dismount.

"I'm fine, go get her!"

Junior whistled to Champion, dug his heels into the big gelding's sides, and sprinted after the rogue mare, the pack mule hot on his trail.

"Blasted she-devil," Isa spat, prodding a stinging spot at her hip. She'd landed on a spindly branch hidden in the high grass, and it had punctured her oilskin, scratching her in the fall. I'm going to kill that horse for trying to kill me, she thought maliciously as she examined the sore spot through the hole in her clothing. Her fingertips came up red when she checked them, and her blood boiled further. Her new hat lay several yards back on the road, and she limped out of the ditch and back into the mud. Her new purchase had landed on its crown, and she brushed it off as well as she could while Junior spent the next couple of minutes roping the runaway horse.

Once caught in the little field beyond the treeline, Mirage trotted sedately behind Junior, her dark, watchful eyes on Isa.

This biddable pretense was the final straw.

"You miserable little bangtail," Isa growled, stomping toward the accursed animal. "That's the last time I will ever throw myself off you. The next time you act up, I'll ride you off a cliff, just see if I don't!"

Above her, Junior flattened his lips tight against his teeth.

"And this." She grunted, tugging at the cinch of the saddle that had listed to the side. "I'll be damned if I plant my rear on you for the rest of the day…" Her voice trailed off while she struggled, fumbling with the cinch strap. She finally freed it and moved to the other strap. Then she disentangled her saddlebags from it all, letting them drop to the road. Isa pulled the saddle off like a sack of potatoes and marched toward the pack mule.

"What are you doin'?" There was a suspicious tremble in Junior's voice.

"I'm riding Red. What does it look like?" she asked savagely. "Help me get all these supplies off."

Junior transferred the supplies to a curious Mirage for the next quarter hour while Isa saddled the brawny red pack mule.

"I cannot believe I had to fling myself from you like a damsel in distress," Isa told Mirage, pulling the bit from the mare's mouth.

Junior, securing the last of the bags on Mirage, began to laugh, rich and from the belly.

"Shush up!" Isa snapped. "You can lead that fiend from Hell. I'll ride the pack mule all the way home, by God." With that announcement, she slid the bit into Red's mouth, adjusted the harness, and mounted him. Her split skirts were soaked through at the hem, her yellow slicker coated in mud on the left side, and her hair—unbraided and loose—straggled to her waist.

Still laughing like a braying jackass, Junior mounted Champ and rode beside her. Behind him, Mirage trotted unhappily.

"A five-hundred-dollar packhorse," Isa said conversationally. "Isn't that something?"

"Maybe you can trade her for a couple good mules." Junior chuckled at the look she gave him.

"I wouldn't wish that horse on my worst enemy."

Sparkling blue eyes roved the top of her damp head to the ends of her trailing hair. "You look like you escaped Bedlam. You'd better hope no one sees you like this, or they'll admit you."

They argued good-naturedly for a couple of miles until Mirage, bored and resentful of her demotion, trotted closer behind Champion and the mule. Her wet forelock over her white blaze and ears forward, the black mare wedged her way between them. Isa stared straight ahead, jaw tight. Junior pulled a cigarette out and observed interestedly. Extending her neck out, Mirage reached until her trembling lips nibbled at Isa's loose hair; Isa swatted her away, expression thunderous. Mirage tried again, this time tugging at Isa's hat brim until the frustrated woman was forced to nudge her heels into the mule's sides.

The horse would not be ignored. When one thing didn't work, Mirage would try another tactic, bumping, teasing, playing. Red shook his head in irritation, his long ears flapping. Junior smoked his hand-rolled cigarette, lips curved softly.

"I think she's apologizing." He nudged Isa's boot with his stirrup.

She glared at him. "I don't care if she learns to write ‘sorry' on a piece of paper and mails it by pony express, I'm not forgiving this—ow!" Mirage had pulled a hank of Isa's hair, her head bobbing up and down excitedly. Isa rubbed her tender scalp, denying mercy all the way to the Brazos River.

WASHINGTON-ON-THE-Brazos had one street—a path, really. The town was so small that its church also acted as a schoolhouse. A single mercantile stood across from a nondescript building. Isa peered closer at the latter and suspected it to be a saloon. Half a dozen people stopped what they were doing to watch the two blond strangers ride through their little hamlet. They nodded when Junior tipped his hat, but they whispered and pointed at the handsome black horse trudging dourly behind them.

Isa checked the sun's position in the overcast sky. It was high noon. They reached the ferry street not much later, where an off-kilter sign read "La Bahia Road."

The river was high through the trees, its muddy brown waters full of swirling currents and bits of foam. An ancient rope lay between the two banks, its dark, drooping center grazing the Brazos River. Attached to the rope was a rickety flatboat with two men pulling a family and wagon across. The algae-slick rope slapped the water with every heave. Off to the side was a dilapidated shack; its only decoration was a sign with a faded list of services, load allowances, and prices. Its door opened, and a stout woman with graying hair, a toothless scowl, and bowed legs strode out. Isa and Junior dismounted, paid the sour-faced woman, and led their mounts closer to the bank.

Beneath a shade tree, a group of men loitered on their horses. They watched attentively as Isa pulled her slicker off.

"Hold my hat," she commanded Junior, her voice muffled against the dense fabric.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm sweating through my blouse." Miss Pickney would have been horrified at such a statement. Isa's puffed sleeves had wilted forlornly, and she smoothed back tresses, knotted from her tumble in the ditch. Junior's long quiet spell made her look up in suspicion, expecting censure. But he wasn't looking at her with condemnation. His heavy-lidded gaze was dragging slowly down the contours of her body, pausing at the tuck of her blouse in her waistband. She quickly checked her person, but there was nothing untoward about the fitted sage-green fabric. No mud, no stains, no bugs. When she met Junior's gaze, her cheeks were hot. Confound it . She never blushed, and here it was the second day on the trail, and she'd done more blushing around him than she had all year.

Isa held her hand out. "May I have my hat, please?"

"Yeah." His voice was gruff, and he handed her hat over, eyes skittering away. "Stay with the horses. It looks like they might need help." The two men pulling the family on the ferry had reached the bank, but one was elderly, mopping his brow with a black-stained handkerchief. The two oxen stumbled in front of the wagon, making the whole flatboat sway. Junior draped his jacket and vest over Champion's saddle, turned to leave, then stopped and eyed the group of dawdling men. They had sidled closer to the bank. He leaned in and said softly, "Don't look at those men."

Isa looked at them anyway. Scoffed. "Why would I want to?"

The four men were unkempt, clustered together on hungry, travel-worn horses.

"Just stay out of trouble. I'll be back."

She mock-saluted him, and her lips curved up as he shook his golden head the whole way to the water's edge. Junior's shoulders were broad beneath his cream shirt and black suspenders, and the fringe of his leather chaps swayed with his slow stride. Pulling her gaze from the oscillating leather, she settled her hat on her head. Isa bundled up her oilskin, got it as small and tight as possible, and packed it into her saddlebags. From the smallest compartment, she withdrew her sack of sunflower seeds. Red, pleased to have been such an essential part of the journey, perked his long, fuzzy ears, his enormous brown eyes on the sack in her hand.

"Would you like some?" she asked, running her thumb along the length of the mule's ear. Red stretched his neck out, lips quivering in bliss. She laughed softly.

"Think she'd do that to me?" asked a voice just loud enough to be heard to her left.

The group of men, who had wandered closer once Junior left, laughed. A second one replied, "Reckon the mule's ear is cleaner than your'n, Jonesie."

"Wasn't my ear I was talkin' bout," growled Jonesie, and the men laughed again.

Don't look at them , Isa sternly told herself, good humor shriveling. Don't you open your big mouth.

Determined to ignore the men who were acting no better than schoolyard boys, Isa cracked a few sunflower seeds open between her teeth and fed them to Red. An ebony muzzle crept closer, its whiskers twitching. When the velvet-soft lips tugged at her cuff, Isa sighed and gave the ungrateful mare a seed. Before long, all three animals pressed close, wanting more hard-earned treats, and Isa pulled away from their hovering heads.

"You're going to smother me for treats," she muttered. Gathering their leads, she led them further from the whispering, laughing men and tied the animals to a hitching post. Leaning against the post, Isa doffed her hat and watched Junior help the youngest man lead the frightened oxen from the swaying flatboat. She hung her hat on Junior's saddle horn, chewing on seeds and working them open with teeth and tongue. Sick to death of her hair tickling her ears and neck, she finger-combed her unruly locks, sectioned out her hair, and began to braid it.

In the distance, the oxen lowed directly into Junior's ear—just as the men began to whistle and jeer.

The bold one, Jonesie, had pale-gray eyes and an old scar running down the right side of his face. He called, "Why don't you ditch your brother and ride with us?"

Don't say anything . Isa kept her eyes straight ahead.

He drew close enough that he no longer had to shout for her to hear him. "Want to know what it's like to be with a real man?"

Isa bristled. All her silent vows not to speak fizzled away like water in a hot skillet. "I'll ask one when I see one."

Slightly vacant gray eyes blinked at her. Grime gathered in black lines along the creases of his neck.

Impatiently, she spat a couple of empty shells out. "Paint a picture, it'll last longer."

His expression curdled. "You're an uppity bitch, ain't you?"

She was spitting shells out like an old farmer, but she was uppity? What a hoot. "I sure am. Now go toddle back over to your friends. You're not wanted here." Isa faced forward, popping more seeds into her mouth, a picture of indifference. She tied off the end of her braid, and it slithered, snakelike, down her back. Disregarding the man, who still hadn't moved, Isa plucked her hat off the saddle horn and set it atop her head.

Drat . Junior was walking up the trail toward them, his expression thunderous.

"Jonesie," hissed one of his friends.

"You'd better go before he gets here," Isa warned, refusing to look at the foul man to her left. Her heart began to pound. Adrenaline sounded warning bells in her ears.

"I ain't scared of him."

She imagined an ape beating his chest.

"You should be afraid of that .45 at his hip. He can hit a snake between the eyes at fifty paces." When Isa looked at him this time, she was openly hostile. The last thing she needed was for some backwoods ignoramus to start trouble. Junior was still healing from a gunshot wound and didn't need another because this fool got fresh with her. "Go back to your friends. Go!"

Too late.

"Hey." The word cracked like a whip, and Jonesie stumbled back as Junior aggressively positioned himself between the other man and Isa. "There a problem here?"

"There's no problem," Isa said quickly.

"What are you sayin' to her?" Junior crowded the other man. From her vantage point, Isa could only distinguish Junior's dark-red neck beneath his fresh haircut and a sliver of Jonesie's blanched face.

"I wasn't sayin' nothing," the other man assured, hands up.

"Not how I saw it from down there. You have something to say, you better say it to me."

"I don't want no trouble."

Junior shoved the man once, hard. "You heard her, then. Go. Get outta here!"

Staggering, Jonesie turned and made a quick getaway to his friends. The other men looked like they wanted to intervene, but Junior didn't move. His hand hovered over his gun, steady as a sharpshooter. Jonesie mounted his thin brown horse, sent Junior and Isa a withering look, and rode off. Reluctantly, his friends followed, and they vanished into the shadows. Prickles rose along Isa's arms at the man's parting glare, one of the most malevolent she'd ever received.

Junior and Isa unhitched their animals when the men didn't return and led them to the waiting flatboat. From the corner of his mouth, Junior asked, "What the hell was he saying to you?"

"Nothing worth repeating." Her lack of defensiveness seemed to put Junior more on edge. It didn't help when the ferry man spoke up.

"You two better watch your back." He spat in the water and took Champion's reins. "That outfit is bad news, yes sirree."

"They outlaws?" Junior asked, inspecting the wood line where the four men had disappeared.

"Don't know. Bunch o' local thieves and murderers. They take this ferry all the time to Navasota."

"Navasota." Junior's face was impassive the whole ride across the river, except the deep line furrowed between his brows.