Victoria Bylin - Of Men And Angels
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- Название:Of Men And Angels
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- Год:неизвестен
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- Рейтинг книги:5 / 5. Голосов: 1
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Jake pulled out a white petticoat and tossed it to her. “We’ll camp here tonight. My horse needs rest.”
“All right,” she answered, deftly wrapping the baby in the cotton and cradling him in her arms. She held him close to her chest, sharing her body heat.
Jake made a fire, cooked coffee and opened his last can of beans. He hadn’t been prepared to leave Flat Rock. His stash had included some jerky, a few canned goods and a flask of whiskey, most of which was gone.
As soon as the can was warm, he handed it to her with his only spoon and poured coffee into his only cup.
“You go first.” He was about to say Save me some, but the ravenous look in her eyes made him bite his tongue. She barely got out a polite thank-you before she nestled Charlie in her lap and reached for the can.
“Careful, it’s hot.”
Their fingers touched as he maneuvered the hot pad into her palm. Even before he could stand up straight, she was shoveling beans into her mouth. She closed her eyes as if she were dining on pheasant, moaned with pleasure, swallowed and licked her lips.
All over a can of beans.
There wasn’t a doubt in Jake’s mind he’d go hungry tonight, and if it meant listening to the angel sigh with pleasure, he’d do it gladly. Night fell as he unsaddled the bay, set his gear near the fire and slouched against the saddle with his hat pulled low. He heard the spoon scrape against the tin can, then it stopped with a rattle.
Alex cleared her throat. “I’ve saved half for you.”
“I’m not hungry.” But his wayward stomach chose that moment to growl.
She must have heard his hunger pangs, because she was holding back a smile. “If you’re not hungry, I’ll put the rest out for the birds.”
“Finish it,” he said. “You haven’t eaten for two days.”
She shook her head. “You’re a lousy cook. I don’t want it.”
She was dangling the can in front of him like bait, and she looked as if she’d die if he didn’t eat something. His stomach rumbled even more loudly, and she smiled. “Please, Jake. I really can’t eat any more.”
His name rolled gently from her lips, and he liked it.
“All right then.” He reached across the fire and took the can in his bare hand. The metal was cool now, but still warm where her fingers had been. As the angel picked up the baby, he polished off the meal in four bites and poured coffee.
Charlie was squeaking like a kitten, and Jake washed down an unfamiliar lump of worry with the dregs from the pot. “Is he all right?”
“Just hungry. Can you hand me the canteen?”
He picked up the flask, stretched his arm as far as it would go and he handed it to her. She took it in both hands, tore off a piece of the petticoat, twisted it into a teat, and soaked it with water. Tickling the baby’s chin, she slipped the cotton into his mouth.
“With a little luck, he’ll figure this out,” she said.
The baby’s lips moved in that birdlike way, and he started to suck. Jake breathed a sigh of relief.
As Charlie’s jaws worked the makeshift nipple, Alex rocked him. “He’s fairly big for a newborn.”
Jake looked doubtful. He’d seen plucked chickens with more meat on their bones. Curiosity loosened his tongue and he sat higher against the saddle.
“Isn’t it kind of crazy for a woman to be traveling when she’s so far along?”
“It is, but she didn’t have much choice. She was stuck in Leadville for weeks because of the bridge being out over the gorge. If the train had been running, we would have reached Grand Junction a month ago.”
“Do you know anything about her?”
“Only that her last name was Smith and that she was a widow from Chicago. She mentioned starting a restaurant with her sister in California, but we talked mostly about the weather and the miserable ride. She seemed like a very private person.
“Being a widow named Smith sounds pretty convenient to me,” Jake said.
“I thought so, too.”
Charlie started fussing, and Alex dipped the cotton in the canteen. The baby made tiny sucking sounds, and the angel started humming, a lullaby he recognized in some hidden depth of his soul. The sun was gone, and in the firelight he watched the baby fall asleep in her arms.
Her eyelids were drooping too, and he kicked himself for noticing the thick lashes that shadowed her eyes. With thoughts of warmth and sweetness nipping at him, Jake stood up and spread his bedroll near the fire. “You and Charlie can have the blanket.”
“I’m not cold.” She pulled the baby closer and scooted against a rock.
Jake dropped the blanket over her shoulders, but she shrugged it off. He glared at her. She was making things more difficult than they had to be. “You’re either stupid or a liar. Which is it?”
“I’m too polite for my own good.”
“Then you’re both.”
She grinned at him, and he saw both truth and humor in her eyes. “Actually, I’m neither, but you’re still wet and I’m dry enough to be comfortable by the fire.”
He left the blanket lying in the dirt. For a man who didn’t have a considerate bone in his body, he was acting like a fool. He should have taken the blanket, gotten his whiskey from the saddlebag and concentrated on forgetting the past two days, but this woman made him irritable.
“You like to argue, don’t you?” he finally said.
“It’s a family trait.” Her eyes darkened. “How soon before we get to Grand Junction?”
“A day or so.”
“I’m already a month later than I wanted to be.”
“What’s waiting for you?”
“Family,” she said. “My parents. I haven’t seen them in five years.”
The baby was quiet, and Alex was on the verge of sleep. In less than a minute her head rolled forward and her breathing blended into the deep rhythms of the night. He spread the slicker on the ground and urged her down so that she was on her side with Charlie cradled in her arms, then he covered them both with the blanket.
As for himself, he had other ways to keep warm. Crouching by his gear, he pulled the whiskey flask out of the saddlebag. It was half-empty, but it was enough to help him sleep.
Behind him, the angel rustled beneath the blanket. Smoke from the fire wafted to his nose. Lowering the flask, he turned to make sure she hadn’t rolled too close to the coals. Still curled around the baby, she was staring at him as if he’d grown two heads. A nightmarish fear beamed in her eyes. No matter how thirsty he was, she looked like she needed it more.
“Do you want a swallow? It’ll help you sleep.”
“No, thank you.” She closed her eyes and blew out a lungful of air. He could almost see her measuring her next breath, taking it in, and forcing the fear out with it, until she went back to sleep.
The flask dangled in his hand as he breathed in the night air and its peculiar mix of smoke and emptiness. The baby cooed at her side, and a familiar stone shifted in his gut. He would have given ten years of his life, hell, all twenty-five years, just for five minutes of that kind of peace.
The flask grew warm from the heat of his hands. He had never cared for the taste of stale whiskey, and the dregs had been cooking for two days now. He heard the angel sigh in her sleep, saw her feet twitch, imagined her dreams of a fiery red desert and a baby being born.
And then he had thoughts of his own, of the crimes he’d committed, of Lettie, and his brother Gabe, of the last night in Flat Rock. He had been close to vomiting for two days now, and he knew if he took even a swallow of the warm liquor his guts would spill at his feet. He’d shame himself in front of her, and she’d be on her feet in a heartbeat, holding his head while he puked up his guts.
He couldn’t bear the thought of the angel hearing him vomit, so he put the whiskey back in his saddlebag and walked into the darkness. Stopping at a boulder silhouetted by the moon, he rolled a cigarette, slipped it between his lips and struck a match.
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