River's Edge (Unlikely Gentlemen, Book 1) (6 page)

“Does he actually know anything about that contraption, River?” Amos asked, sharing his low opinion of Edge.

Edge kept his lip zipped. He could see what was afoot. The old man figured he’d insult him into leaving. That wasn’t going to happen. The scents and sights in the kitchen were enough to keep his ass glued to the chair regardless of the foreman’s disgust.

Miss Prescott crossed back and forth from stove to table, delivering bowls. He waited, ready to jump up and pull her chair out if she ever got around to sitting down. She saved the platter of roast beef for last, setting it dead center in the middle of the other food on the table.

He studied the roast; it was a work of art. She’d sliced thin sections, placing the well done at the outer edge of the plate, working inward displaying less done with each slice, until the pinkest flesh nestled in the center, oozing juice invitingly. Without warning his cock, which had settled down from its ordeal outside, twitched back to life.

“How do you like your meat, Mr. Grayson?” she asked.

“Yes,” he muttered.

She moved to her chair, and contrary to his original plan, he remained seated, hiding the full-blown hard-on he now sported. By the way her foreman eyed him, Edge figured this would be his last invitation to eat at the Prescott table, so he picked up his fork and prepared to pile his plate full of roasted beef, mashed potatoes, gravy, rolls, and corn. His stomach growled.

She folded her hands and bowed her head. He felt like an ass. Carefully he replaced his fork, wincing as it clinked against the plate. He’d gotten his head down ready to close his eyes when she opened hers, picked up her napkin and smiled at him.

“Now, we’re ready,” she said. “Tell me how you know about bicycles.”

Amos grunted and scowled at Edge in case he hadn’t already figured out the foreman disliked him. Edge ignored him and talked to Miss Prescott.

“I hired my gun to a race track owner for awhile.”

It was her turn to frown. A lot of folks didn’t like guns in general and men who used them in particular. He let her worry over that while he forked a piece of roast piece from the pinkest section of the platter and laid it on his plate. Almost reverently he took a bite and chewed.

Ahhhhh. Miss Prescott can cook.
He decided that whether either of the present company liked him or not, he was finishing his plate of food.

“Men who sell the use of their guns end up dead.” One by one, she handed him the bowls, accompanying each with a disapproving look.

Amos perked up. Edge wasn’t sure whether it was at the idea of a dead Grayson or because the Prescott’s new neighbor had earned River’s low opinion. Either way didn’t matter. Edge piled his plate full of fried corn, rolls, potatoes and more meat and settled down to eat the first real meal he’d had in months.

Even if he hadn’t been half starved for anything home cooked, he would have recognized he was eating great food. He didn’t want to hurry through the experience. After he’d appeased his first lash of hunger, he slowed down, sipped his coffee and eased into his story-telling which he considered fair payment for the fine meal.

“In answer to how I know about mechanical gadgets from working at the track, on days when there were no races and no fights brewing, I helped feed and water the animals, which included an ostrich.”

“Last I heard, an ostrich don’t have pedals,” Amos sneered.

“From time to time, I helped with the harness racing, too.” Edge refused to be hurried and sipped his coffee letting them stew.

“And?” Amos did the asking but River listened just as closely.

“And a couple times the contenders rode
velocipedes. I’m not an expert, but I’ve helped fix more than one such contraption when the chain came loose from the sprocket.”

He finished his coffee. Miss Prescott immediately noticed and refilled his cup. He felt wonderful—he hadn’t been this tended since he was ten years old and still being babied by his mother’s brothel friends.

He didn’t want to finish up yet, though he’d started to feel stuffed from eating too much too fast and parched from talking. Turnabout seemed in order.

“Where did you get your two-wheeler?”
He figured he’d catch his breath and let his meal settle while she talked.

“It’s called a bicycle. I ordered it and had it shipped all the way from Coventry, England.”

“Why?” The idea of shipping a riding contraption all the way across the ocean to be used on rough trails or no trails seemed a mite strange. She was a puzzlement.

“Freedom,” she said succinctly as if he’d understand the obvious which he didn’t. Then he remembered Amos driving the horse at a trot into town. When he’d left, on the other hand, he’d been driving the horse at a pace slower than a turtle moved. And she’d been sitting with her back to the bench, staring at the scenery behind the wagon.

“You’re afraid of horses.” It would have been better to keep his observation to himself.

“No, I don’t like them. There is a difference. Bicycles are the future.” She glared at him, her look daring him to argue, which, not being a fool, he wasn’t about to do. He could tell she wasn’t ever going to admit any weakness like fear, though he’d felt her fingers tremble against his back when she’d held onto him for dear life and he’d stood between her and Emmett Price. He figured she was proud of her contraption so he stayed on that topic.

“I don’t think much of the high-seated version of your device but the one you own is a good bit safer.” He had no problem praising her Rover because it was decidedly improved over the design he’d worked on before.

“But keep in mind, no collection of bolts and screws will ever match the dependability of a good horse.” He slipped in his opinion just to see her button of a nose crinkle in disdain. She didn’t disappoint, rolling her eyes at him too. But the old man nodded his head, agreeing with Edge.

“Once in Fort Worth I watched a man pedal to victory on one of those high-wheelers they call penny-farthings. He’d just crossed the finish line ahead of a field of horses when he hit a rut, somersaulted over the handle bars, and ended up dead from a broken neck.”

She shrugged. “I’m not racing so I’m not worried. My Starley & Sutton Safety Rover is a revolutionary invention I recommend investing in.”

Edge had recently been wondering where he’d find money to buy Sandy oats, not to mention feed himself through winter, so at first, her suggestion seemed pretty ludicrous. On the other hand, she spoke to him as if he
could
invest, treating him with respect. He liked that; he liked her.

Amos didn’t offer much in conversation but he followed theirs avidly. The few times Edge looked his way, the old man was wearing an expression of consternation.

During the rest of the meal, things relaxed considerably. Edge entertained them with a pithy description of the Fort Worth stockyards, finishing up with his story about the Hells’ Half Acre ostrich race. He didn’t know what Amos thought about it, but Miss Prescott seemed transported by the notion of a fleet-footed bird beating horses across a finish line.

“Yesss,” she breathed the word with startling passion. “I must see that.” She flexed her hand, winced, and her expression of delight became somber. She took a sip of water and changed the subject. “How do you know Emmett Price?”

“I don’t. Didn’t know his name though I met him Friday, when he crossed onto my land from yours. He rode with the man named Charlie and another; but he was in charge.”

“What did he want?” Amos leaned toward him, his fork gripped in his hand.

“Offered me a dollar for my land. I declined.” Edge assumed they were finally getting to the crux of the invitation to the meal.

“Emmett is a thug. You did exactly the right thing reporting it to the sheriff.” River said.

“For all the good it did me. I just wanted to make the law know I’m not planning to sell to anyone in case I disappear.”

Miss Prescott leaned toward treating him like a neighbor. He hoped that would continue. It seemed like every place he traveled, people wanted to hire him to fight their fight.

“So you’re staying?” Miss Prescott flattered him with her hopeful question.

“Yeah, but I’d just as soon live to tell my grand kids about it. The three jakes threatening me weren’t that smart, but anyone can pull a trigger from behind a rock.”

Amos nodded sympathetically. “Sheriff Simpson offer any help?”

“Naw. He waved the whole thing away. Claimed he didn’t know who it could be or why they’d do such a thing.”

“Hanks not interested in pursuing justice if it puts him in the path of danger.” Abruptly, Miss Prescott pushed her chair away from the table, her fury easy to see. She seemed surprised when Edge took that as his cue to leave and stood.

“We didn’t get around to dessert. Take these with you.” She handed him a sack and accompanied him to the porch.

“Well, thank you for the fine meal.” He held the bag awkwardly, wondering what she’d fixed up for him to take along with him. He didn’t want to seem too eager, so he thanked her again and left her standing on the porch while Amos walked him to his horse.

“I knew your pa before he run off,” Amos said, his lip curling with contempt.

“I didn’t,” Edge answered and sighed. He’d kind of thought they’d gotten past that during the meal. His answer seemed to pull the old man up short. Amos didn’t say much for awhile.

Edge kept his mouth shut and saddled Sandy, determined to make it off the Prescott ranch without a quarrel. Finally Amos broke the silence.

“Well, guess I can’t fault you for your no good pa’s ways. Your granddad was a fine man.”
The grudging half acceptance was more than Edge expected.

When Edge mounted, ready to ride up to the porch and say his goodbyes to Miss Prescott, Amos caught the reins and stopped him.

“Might as well wave from here. She’s scared of horses just like you said.”

Edge would have preferred a closer goodbye without the old man hanging onto every word, but he waved and turned Sandy toward the trail home.

Amos actually walked beside him out of the ranch yard, ready to talk now that Edge was leaving. “River did the cooking for Sunday dinner today, you know. Good wasn’t it?”

“I told her the meal was mighty fine and I meant it.” Edge had manners enough to say thanks and smarts enough to say praise. The foreman’s prodding irritated him.

In spite of the good food and momentary feeling of welcome, he spent the ride back to his place reminding himself he was a stranger in town and he wasn’t getting drawn into trouble that had started a long time before he arrived.

It was hard to keep up that attitude though, when he opened the sack she’d sent along and found two thick roast beef sandwiches and a stack of cookies for him to eat for his evening meal.

He didn’t rethink the bicycle repair incident until after he’d settled down for the night and pulled his hat over his eyes. That was when the thought that had been lurking behind everything else, popped to the forefront of his mind.
Miss Prescott called a sprocket a sprocket.

Sleep eluded him as images of River on her knees filled his mind. He replayed the incident. She licked her lips; his cock jumped. She peered up at him from big green eyes and he could almost smell the scent of lilacs. Her head bent and she looked at his groin. Edge groaned.
That sweet little thing knew exactly what she was doing.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Welcome gifts…

“Seems like a nice enough fellow. What do you think of him?”

His question made River smile. Amos had been ready to share opinions as soon as Edge left. Apparently, having dinner with the
cold-blooded killer
had dispelled her foreman’s animus toward their new neighbor.

“I think I’d like to have seen that ostrich race.” She’d grinned at their guest’s stories so much, her face ached. “What a picture it would make.”

“Maybe he can describe it to you slower, so you can draw it,” Amos suggested.

River shrugged off the idea. She needed a live subject to sketch. And it wasn’t an ostrich she had in mind.

After Amos left, she returned to the kitchen, puttering with this and that because her fingers were too swollen to grasp a pencil, and she couldn’t relax. After she’d done the dishes, scrubbed the counters, and made a batch of bread, she sat at the table and drank a cup of tea.

Talking to Edge Grayson had been exhilarating. He’d listened as if what she said interested him, and then turned around and made her laugh at his own tales of wicked places and dangerous men. It had been a wonderful tonic for her bruised spirit. But in the silence of the empty room, after Edge was gone, she faced reality.

She’d had plenty of time on the horribly slow ride home, to contemplate Emmett’s threat. Her bruised and aching hand reminded her of her horrified response, and her use of Edge Grayson as a shield. Yesterday, he’d protected her from Emmett Price, and today, he’d fixed her bicycle.

“I still didn’t tell him thank you.” When she spoke the words aloud, the oversight seemed unforgivable. She patted the mounds of dough into loaves. She’d have to give it away or risk hurting Sarah’s feelings since there wasn’t enough to send to the bunkhouse to feed ten hands. It came to her what to do with them when she pulled the hot loaves from the oven.

I’ll wrap them up, and as soon as it’s light outside, ride them over to Mr. Grayson. I’ve not given him a welcome gift yet. And we have things to discuss.
The day had been one of a kind and she didn’t want it to end. After she finished her work in the account books, she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and curled up in the big chair in the front room. Staring out the window at the night, she stored the colors away in her mind, watching as the sky changed from
cerulean blue to lavender.

As soon as the dawning light brightened enough to show her way, River fashioned a carrier by tying her satchel and a bread basket behind her seat. Her Rover worked fine and she pedaled away from her house, out of the ranch yard following the path toward the river.

Instead of stopping at the top of the bluff, she dismounted and wheeled her ride down the slope to the willow. The heavy bicycle more than once almost got away from her. The water was too deep to push the vehicle through.

“Fiddlesticks,” she muttered. Not one to let circumstance get in the way, she walked up stream to a fallen tree bridging the two sides and wheeled the bicycle across the log before she could lose her nerve. After that, she was back in motion following the trail leading to the Grayson ranch buildings.

It wasn’t until she slid quietly to a stop in front of the derelict building that she began to doubt her impulse. She approached the porch, debating whether the steps were safe to tread when a voice halted her in her tracks.

“Miss Prescott, what in hell are you doing here this time of morning?”

She swung around in time to see the man she’d come to visit lower his gun to his side. He was in longjohns, his chest bare. She didn’t know what to say. It hadn’t seemed that early when she’d left home; but looking at the dew still on the ground and his clutch of chickens perched here and there in trees, she realized it wasn’t much past dawn and too early for socializing.

It didn’t help any that he didn’t say a word, waiting she guessed, for her to answer his question. She didn’t have an answer. She’d never behaved so foolishly before. Her cheeks burned as she walked to her bicycle, untied the basket of bread, carried it to where he stood, and thrust it at him.

“I’m out sketching today,” she told him, waving at her satchel. “I brought you fresh bread.” The two things had nothing to do with each other. She was a nincompoop.

“Guess I’d better put the coffee on.” He folded back the napkin covering the loaves, leaned close smelling the yeasty scent, inhaled deeply, and let the stern line of his mouth curve into a smile. “You do have a way of catching me without my pants on, Miss Prescott. I think I’d better get dressed first.”

River knew her face couldn’t get any redder without bursting into flames. He disappeared into the barn while she fidgeted, feeling more stupid by the moment.
I should get on my bicycle and leave.
But her feet felt rooted to the ground. Buckling his belt but fully dressed, he re-emerged from the barn.

“You’re full of surprises, Miss Prescott. Let me see if I can find something to go with the bread you’ve brought me.” Nonchalantly he carried the basket to the cooking pit he’d fashioned and set it on a bale of straw where, normally, he must sit and eat.

“Maybe you can get the coffee going while I gather eggs for breakfast.” He opened a trail box and rummaged inside before bringing out a grinder, a pot, and a tin of coffee beans.

And just like that, he put her at ease and she stopped feeling like an idiot. Glad to have something to do, she followed his suggestion and made coffee. Then, she pulled out her sketch pad and began sketching him as he searched for hidden eggs.

“It might be easier to find them if you train your chickens to nest in a box,” she advised him when he returned wearing a sheepish grin and carrying breakfast in the form of eight eggs.

River resisted the urge to slap her hand over her mouth as soon as she made the suggestion. Men hated it when a woman pointed out a better way of doing something. It occurred to her even as she berated herself, that it had been a long time since she’d cared what a man thought.

Squatting next to the portable cookstove, he scrambled the eggs, then scooped half from the skillet onto her plate. “I’m not used to company at meals. We’ll have to make do with the eating equipment I have. I’ll eat out of the skillet.”

“Don’t be silly.” River held out her plate for the rest. Looking puzzled, he scraped all the eggs onto the platter. “We’ll share,” she told him, keeping the spoon and handing him the fork.

They sat side-by-side on the bale of straw eating from different sides of the plate. Edge slathered fresh made butter on his bread and closed his eyes, groaning after he took a bite.

“What’s wrong?” River asked anxiously.

“Tell me I’m not dead,” he growled still with his eyes shut. “Cause when I took a bite just now I was pretty sure I’d died and gone to heaven.”

She snickered, so relaxed the tiny giggle bubbled into laughter at his teasing. A silly grin remained plastered to her face when they finished the eggs together and Edge set the plate aside.

“That was an unexpected treat this morning, Miss Prescott. Now are you going to tell me what brought you here so early in the day?”

It was now or never. River had been awake all night thinking about the possibilities. She was very aware of the way his thigh brushed her hip as they sat side-by-side. No words came from her mouth when she opened it. She stood, crossing the area until she faced him over the cook fire.

*

Edge liked her voice. The husky quality of it would have made a hymnal reading sound seductive. But he had to admit, even limited as his experience was, her behavior didn’t tally with what he knew about proper ladies. Of course, he couldn’t imagine any such as them bringing him fresh bread at dawn, either.

He regretted the loss of intimacy when she stood and paced to the other side of the cookstove. It had been awhile since he’d been near a woman and her femaleness pleased him mightily.

He snorted mentally, understanding his role of lackey to her lady of the manor. “The reason for your visit,” he prodded her again.

“I would like to hire you,” she answered, facing him.

“I don’t sell my gun skills anymore.” His enjoyment in her company fled, leaving his tone cold and grim when he answered.

“Well that’s certainly good news, since I’d rather sketch you alive.”

“You want to sketch me?” he asked, feeling stupid as if he’d missed part of the conversation. He scratched his whiskers, absently noting the scruffy feeling of them under his fingers while he tried to get a fix on how the conversation had jumped from sense to nonsense.

“I’m an artist.” She said it as a fact, clasping her hands in front of her, watching him intently. “The first day we almost met, when I was in the willow tree, I was sketching.”

“Well now, that’s real interesting—”

“I make considerable money at it,” she said, cutting him off and gesturing at her bicycle. “Just as we in the West are indulging in the new conveniences offered in the East, Eastern art collectors have developed an appetite for all things Western. You are the perfect image of a cowboy. I would like to sketch you. I will pay you to be my model.”

Well hell. He figured any picture Miss Prescott drew of him at the moment would have a dumb-struck look on his face. He didn’t answer and she prepared to leave, gathering the now empty basket and tying it behind the bicycle seat. Apparently she’d suddenly discovered she had other business.

“Think about it. Let me know. You were an excellent subject.” Abruptly she mounted her bicycle. Straddling the mechanical contraption she’d ridden in on, Miss Prescott leaned toward him. “I’m very serious. I would like to sketch you again.”

“Would that be with or without my clothes?” he drawled.

When she didn’t answer and pushed off, her feet finding the pedals to travel home, he thought he might have scared her. Not so. She was grinning when she shouted her message over her shoulder.

“Both. If you’re interested, be at the willow tree tomorrow.” And away she went, riding her two-wheeled carriage like a queen.

She pedaled faster, putting distance between them. He was glad she didn’t look back because he knew he’d lost the battle with his jaw, his mouth gaped wide open as he watched her ride back down the dirt trail.

“I need to tie a handkerchief around my head to keep my jaw from dropping when she’s around,” he muttered.

*

She’d done it. Cheeks blazing from both wind and embarrassment, River pedaled furiously away from the man standing behind her. It astonished her how fiercely she wanted him to be her model. Excitement sizzled through her veins, powering the forward thrust of the bicycle as she sped toward her namesake.

River, River, River… Leash your emotions.
Her mother’s often said words surfaced, reminding her to quell her excesses. Out of sight of the Grayson ranch yard, she slowed. Her fingers tingled and she guided her bicycle with one hand, flexing the other, testing its readiness as she planned the picture she would draw the next day.

She hadn’t exaggerated. Edge was the epitome of what Easterners thought a cowboy should be, and River knew she’d sell her paintings of him and make money. She’d already drawn his picture so many times it would have been simple enough to lay appropriate background and paint each western landscape, dominated by his rugged presence.

She resolved to share the money from this work with him since his cooperation would make it possible—and from the looks of his ranch—he needed financial help.

Probably needs some ranching advice too. I’ll send Amos over to talk to him. No, I’ll invite him to come to supper this time and let him talk to Amos over another good meal. No wonder he enjoyed the food yesterday.

She swerved and almost wrecked her bicycle when Edge appeared beside her as she approached the log spanning the water.

“I was afraid this was the way you’d crossed with your vehicle.” He wore a stern expression, speaking to her in a gruff, chastising manner. “That’s a dumb thing to do.”

“I managed fine getting across the first time. I’ll manage fine…” River spoke quickly, fighting the urge to stumble back and away from the monster sized beast he rode.

When she dismounted her bicycle, prepared to walk it across the slippery tree limb, he leaned from his horse, pushing the bicycle from her grasp. The next thing she knew, she was perched on his lap, at the mercy of him and the beast under her.

“Put me down,” she whimpered. The size of the horse eclipsed any other thought. Gripping his shirt front, she held on, shaking like an aspen in the wind. “I told you. I hate horses.” He in turn, cradled her closer to his chest as he carried her across the river to the willow tree. Once there, he slid from the saddle still holding her.

“Guess you weren’t exaggerating,” he said. He stood between her and the animal, staring down at her with concern.

“I’m fine.” It was the best she could manage.

Without a word, he remounted, splashing this time as he raced back through the water. Dismounting by her downed bicycle, he grasped the handle bars on the heavy contraption and wheeled it onto the log, balancing it and himself for the walk across. She winced as she saw him teeter and slide more than once.