Kate Bridges - The Proposition

“Hmm,” Travis muttered to himself. “Too heavy to carry.”

Morning light broke through the dark clouds. The streets were quiet, although he heard the faint hooves of two horses echoing beyond the steel bridge leading to the center of town, thudding softly beyond the store facades, restaurants and the big hotel. Another workday was beginning.

Flecks of apricot highlighted Jessica’s braided hair and puffy face, still rumpled from sleep. For the first time in years, he had the opportunity to take a long look at her.

Other men considered her pretty but she was rather plain, in his opinion. And a bit old, in her early twenties, to still be unmarried. He, on the other hand, was close to thirty. If you took away her fancy clothes, starched blouse and embroidered skirt, untwisted her hair from the fancy knots, you’d be left with an undistinguished blonde, face freckled from the outdoors and with a much-too-eager smile.

Money-bought prettiness.

But she wasn’t wearing her usual display of gold rings and necklaces. Come to think of it, she hadn’t yesterday, either. Only one thin, gold chain adorned her throat, with a cluster of ridiculous silver baubles strung through her ears. Frivolous and boring is how he’d describe her.

And it was strange, meeting a woman who wanted to work. His sister Shawna had founded the town library, and sometimes she helped at the pub, but her husband owned the pub. That was different. He sucked in a breath, wondering how on earth these two in front of him planned on riding through nearly two hundred miles of narrow mountain paths dressed like that. And their bulging bags obviously needed to be repacked. If they couldn’t balance the weight, no horse should.

He stepped out and tilted the brim of his black-felt Stetson. “Morning.”

“Fine one it is, sir,” said Giles Merriweather. “Not too hot and not too cold. Not too many bugs, but just enough to keep life interesting. Are the horses inside?”

Travis nodded and stepped aside for the old gent to enter. He was an English butler, emigrated from Plymouth thirty years ago and he’d adopted and adored everything Western since. A wide sombrero topped long gray hair, a blue-denim shirt complete with silver rivets draped a narrow chest, and tight denim trousers flanked meaty legs. Too tight to move comfortably.

Travis was also wearing denim pants, his rugged Levi’s, miner’s pants that could take the abuse of a trip like this, but his were old and relaxed.

“New boots,” Travis said as the man squeaked by in shiny brown leather.

Merriweather beamed, huffing as he passed. “I bought them yesterday.”

Blisters by nightfall, thought Travis.

“Good morning,” hollered Jessica, yanking on the leather straps of her huge bag, her impeccably pressed skirt and blouse fluttering in the soft breeze, framing her curves. And there was that eager smile, trying to win him over.

Never.

“New luggage?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, a smile dimpling her cheeks. “We bought them late last night. Luckily the mercantile was still open after I left the pub.”

“I suppose you thought when I said one bag apiece, I meant the biggest crate you could find.” He shook his head and her smile lost its dazzle.

She held out the straps, indicating that he should take over the pulling and yanking.

She had a few matters to learn about survival in the wild.

He brushed past her, snubbing her extended hand. “Funny, but I had a feeling I’d need to bring two spare saddlebags. You’re both going to repack before we leave. Congratulations, that’ll make us late. And I hate to be late.”

He heard her loud intake of breath. Then she clawed her bag through the gate’s opening. Six muscled horses, cast orange in the rising sun, stood tethered to the hitching posts.

“Let’s not make the horses wait too long, folks,” he said. “I’ve brought you each a derringer. Pack them in your bags.”

Jessica unbuckled her bag and took the small silver gun. Fifteen minutes later, after he’d helped Merriweather repack, Travis came up behind Jessica and looked down at her open bag, resting in the grass. “Problems?”

“I—I need everything in here.”

He bent down and removed two pairs of shoes. “You won’t need these. The boots you’re wearing are enough.”

“But the high-heeled ones are in case I need something a little more formal…and the buttoned red ones…I really like them and I thought just in case—”

“No.” Without mercy, Travis tossed them into the discard pile. He rummaged through her things, quickly amassing two stacks. He couldn’t understand why she found it difficult to pack. “One shawl is enough. You won’t need two belts. And not these tonics either.” He tossed out four glass bottles.

She grabbed one. “But these are my face creams and hair soaps.”

“One plain cake of soap can service your entire body.” His look swept from her toes all the way up to her head. “Including your hair, if you must wash it in the next week.”

Her eyes narrowed. Her smile hung like a crooked picture, he thought, weak with no genuine feeling behind it.

“Let me guess,” he said. “First time in the mountains?”

She scowled. That was more like it. At least a scowl was genuine.

“Yours, too, Merriweather?”

“Ah, but I’m looking forward to the adventure, sir.”

Travis scrutinized her pack. He removed a wide-brimmed cowboy hat and tossed it up to her. “Wear this to protect your head. No sense packing it. Get rid of the bonnet.” Then he pulled out a speckled flannel cloth. “What’s this?” It looked like an infant’s nightdress.

With an embarrassed gasp, she snatched it from his fingers. “It’s private.”

He snatched it back. “You don’t need it.”

Her face reddened. She grabbed it again. “It’s…a gift for someone.”

He couldn’t believe the frivolous things she was carting. “No gifts.”

“But—”

“No gifts.”

She jumped at the tone of his voice. With her brown hat in one hand, she scrunched the flannel cloth with the other but didn’t move to put it in the discard pile.

“What’s in this compartment?” he asked.

She flew to her knees, pushing him out of the way, surprising him with her strength. “That’s my personal business.” She blushed considerably.

He moved to unbuckle the pocket but she snapped it from his hands. “Personal business,” she shouted.

The pocket was square and thick, as if it carried paper. “All right, all right. You get the idea now. If that’s your writing journal, remember, you only need to write in one. And just one pencil.”

Ten torturous minutes later, he was strapping Merriweather’s saddlebag to one of the broodmares. The butler stood twenty feet away, laughing with one of the guards.

“One more thing,” said Travis to Jessica. “You better change before we leave.”

When he turned around, he towered over her. She eyed him carefully, then looked down at her clothes, smoothing her blouse with a graceful hand. Two long braids of hair, flung over jutting breasts, sparkled in several shades of gold. A natural rouge sprang to her lips, deepening the outline of her mouth. “Why?”

“Church clothes aren’t for riding. Too much starch.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I saw a pair of cotton pants in your pile.”

“My sister threw those in.” Her earrings dangled at the side of her head, catching a beam of sunlight. “I-I’m not taking them.”

He rearranged his Stetson. “They’re the only sensible thing you’re bringing. You won’t be comfortable in anything else while riding astride.”

“Astride? I’ll be riding sidesaddle.”

“No sidesaddle.”