Devil's Dare

Going inside, she found the middle-aged farmer in the parlor with her father and Charity, telling them that his elderly father-in-law, who lived with them and who had been declining for months, was saying he was going to die again. He wondered if the reverend would come out, and sit up with him for a while, and quiet his doubts about the hereafter.

Mercy did her best to smother a smile. This had happened so many times before that it had become something of a joke between the girls, for their father would go out to the soddy out by the Smoky River, spend all night praying with the cantankerous old man, return home exhausted but triumphant that he had helped save the old, nearly deaf reprobate’s soul, only to have the process repeated in a few months. Mercy suspected the old man used his imminent death as an attention-getting device, or a means of quieting his daughter’s numerous brood when he’d had too much of their noise. Their father never failed to go, however, for old Ike Turnbull was nearing eighty and each time might be the real thing. No, their papa never failed to go; a pastor must tend his flock.

The Reverend Mr. Fairweather said he would go again this time, of course.

“Oh, bless ya, Reverend. I…I think this time he means it,” Abels said, just as he said every time. “He’s been lookin’ might poorly for some time now, laws, yes.”

When they had first moved to Abilene, the reverend would bring Mercy and Charity with him on these calls, volunteering them to help with the farmer’s twelve children, so that the farmer’s wife could be with her father, but after the first couple of times he had told his daughters it wasn’t necessary. Perhaps he suspected the old man was hoaxing him, or perhaps he realized that the older children were perfectly up to watching the younger ones, but in any case Mercy and Charity were relieved not to have to go.

She offered one more time, however, just in case God had decided He had favored her enough by allowing Charity and herself to sneak back into the house undetected last night and was not inclined to bless her any further by permitting the secret supper with Devlin this evening.

“Mr. Abels, would you like Charity and me to come out and watch the children, so your wife can sit by her father’s sick bed?” Give me a sign, she prayed. If you don’t want me to see Sam Devlin tonight, let Mr. Abels take me up on my offer. Then she held her breath. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest, imagining Sam Devlin waiting in vain for her in front of the Abilene Grand Hotel.

The reverend beamed proudly, not noticing Charity’s shocked, dismayed face, or her attempts to get her sister’s attention.

“Oh, bless ya fer offerin’, Miss Mercy, but that won’t be necessary,” Abels replied. “The house is plumb fulla relatives come over from across the Smoky River. They think this might be the end, too, so there’s plenty t’ help. No, I won’t take you girls away from the house, but your papa should be mighty proud of you girls, mighty proud indeed. Laws, yes. You’re good girls.”

“Thank you, George. Yes, I know I’m blessed in my daughters,” said the reverend, rising from his seat. “They’ve been such a comfort to me since their sainted mother went to her reward. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just get my Bible from my bedroom before we go.”

Mercy let Charity handle the small talk while they waited for their father to return. She was too full of relief, and a giddy excitement about how easy it was going to be, to speak. Fortunately Charity handled the task well, inquiring about Abels’s crops and chattering artlessly about the lack of rain.

Moments later their father had departed in the buckboard with Abels, admonishing the girls, “Don’t wait up-it might be morning before I’m back, you know.”

The sisters knew, all right.

He was standing on the planking in front of the Abilene Grand Hotel when she came around the corner, leaning against one of the columns that supported the establishment’s overhanging roof. She knew he had spotted her and was watching her approach, and the knowledge made her pulse quicken.

Was she doing the right thing? She’d been so sure, when she’d left the house, buoyed by Charity’s encouragement. There was no way Charity would have allowed her to back out of going to supper, in fact. She kept reminding Mercy that she owed Devlin that much, at least, for coming to her sister’s aid yesterday.

But now she felt very uncertain as she saw Devlin straighten and push himself away from the post, stepping down off the planking to extend his hand to her.

He looked her up and down. “Miss Mercy, you’re looking pretty as a field of bluebonnets,” he said.

She found it a strange compliment, seeing as how she was clad in garnet silk, not blue, but she figured that must be high praise to a Texan. They were so proud of their oversize state to the south, with all of its unique features. And then his hand touched hers and their eyes met and she almost forgot how to breathe.

His hands were work-worn and callused, but they were warm, and the blood flowing through them called to hers. As Mercy stepped up onto the planking from the dirt of the street, holding his hand as if it were a lifeline, his other hand left his side and she saw that he was holding a small bouquet of red roses.

“For you, Miss Mercy,” he said with a devastating grin. “I had no idea they’d go so well with your dress, too.”

“Too?” she repeated in confusion, her eyes unable to escape his compelling dark blue gaze. She gathered her white lacy shawl more closely around her.

His eyes lowered a few inches. “I was thinking of your lips,” he confessed, handing her the bouquet. “They look soft as these petals,” he said, stroking the edge of one bloom in a circular motion with his thumb.

Mercy felt that caressing thumb as surely as if he had been touching her lips. Involuntarily she licked them, tasting the carmine salve Charity had made her rub on.

She took the bouquet. “You’re…you’re looking very fine yourself, Mr.—uh, Sam,” she said, remembering last night’s command to call him by his Christian name.

It was an understatement. He wore black trousers and a frock coat with a dazzlingly white shirt and a black string tie. Last night she had noted that he had had his hair trimmed so that it just brushed his collar; since then, he had apparently trimmed, ever so slightly, the mustache that made him look so ferocious. He smelled of bay rum. “Shall we go in? I’ve got a table waiting,” he said, and ushered her inside.

A waiter motioned them over to one of the tables away from the window, for which Mercy was grateful, for sitting by the window would increase the chances that someone passing by would see her in there and mention it to her father. She knew from the way that the waiter had eyed her oddly as he handed her a menu that he had recognized her as the preacher’s daughter, but he wasn’t one of the few men who belonged to their congregation, so it didn’t matter. She hoped he wouldn’t refer to her father in front of Devlin, though—she knew he didn’t know her father was a preacher, and she was afraid he might start behaving differently with her if he knew. Mercy just wanted Sam Devlin to be himself.

Sam had noticed the way the waiter had been looking at her, but he’d misinterpreted it. He’d stiffened, thinking the man had recognized his supper companion as Mercedes LaFleche, the sporting woman, and was considering informing him that the Grand Hotel dining room did not serve women “of her caliber,” or some such snobbish euphemism. That would make it awkward as hell for Sam, for then he would want to knock the waiter down, which certainly wouldn’t add a romantic touch to their evening. Mercedes LaFleche probably saw brawling cowboys every night she worked, and was entitled to something a little different when she was taken away from the Alamo Saloon.

But the waiter said nothing, and left them to peruse the grease-spotted menus.

He made his decision quickly, then studied her surreptitiously over the menu. He appreciated the fact that she had worn something tasteful and elegant, rather than the gaudy, multiruffled and flounced gowns a woman of her profession often wore. She apparently disliked flashy gewgaws, too, for the simple red earbobs and a cameo on a black velvet ribbon merely called attention to the slender curve of her white neck, rather than to themselves.

What a different sort of woman she was from the usual run of females who made their living catering to the baser needs of men. She was fine-boned and small, not exactly beautiful—her mouth was too wide for perfect beauty—but she had a quality better than that for which he had no name. Her speech was not “refined,” exactly, but certainly free from the coarse phrases most sporting women used. And she still had the ability to blush. He found that fact incredible, after all she must have seen in her career. No wonder she was such a favorite that she could pick and choose her customers.

There was a blush blooming on her cheeks now, as if she was not unaware of his scrutiny. “Hmm, what looks good to you, Sam?” she asked him.

You do, he thought, but I’ll have to wait till later to see about that. “I don’t know—what do you recommend?”

An anxious frown creased her forehead, and she rescanned the menu. “Umm, I hear the steaks are good,” she offered.

“You hear? Honey, hasn’t anyone ever taken you to supper here?” he said, before he could think.

She shook her head, her eyes still fastened on the menu. “No,” she answered in a small voice. “P—” she began, then stopped. “No,” she repeated. “You’re the first.”

What had she been about to say before she stopped herself? He found it amazing that she had never been here. Maybe the hotel was very recently opened. After all, Abilene had only consisted of a few log cabins before the railroad’s coming brought on the cattle boom only last year. Or perhaps she thought it made a man feel special to have been the first to take her somewhere nice? No, she’d have to be an awfully good actress if the latter was the case—she seemed sincere about what she was saying.

“Well, then—we’ll do our best to make it a memorable occasion, won’t we?” he said with a wink, and was touched to see her blush again. Maybe she did find him appealing. “I don’t think I’ll have the steak, though—I just spent three months eating beef any possible way it could be fixed. We had beef morning, noon and night on the trail. No, I think I’ll have the fried chicken for a change,” he concluded, just as the waiter returned to their table.

“Oh,” she said, “how silly of me. Of course you don’t want steak. I…I think I’ll have the steak, though, if that’s all right,” she said, her eyes glued to the menu. “We—I-don’t eat it too often.”

He was surprised by her meekness. “Honey, you can have anything you want to eat—you can have the whole dang menu if you want it.”

Did he imagine it, or did the waiter frown at him for the endearment that had slipped out? The old sourpuss! What was he afraid of…that next Sam would start making love to Mercedes right at their table? But the waiter scuttled off and they were alone, so that Sam was free to enjoy the color that had invaded Mercedes’s face again—all because he had called her honey?

For a moment there was silence, and then she said, “So—you’re up from Texas. Where, exactly? Do you have a family down there?”

He wondered if she was really asking if he was married, and if he had been, if that would make a difference to a woman of her calling? Probably not, he reasoned. Women like that were used to servicing a man’s needs away from home, knowing that it had nothing to do with the good women they were married to.

“I’m from Brazos County—good blackland prairie country. My father came from Ireland with the clothes on his back and a fine stallion, and started a horse farm there. It was prospering by the time he died. That was before the war, though. The Confederate army requisitioned all our horses, the ones that the Devlin boys didn’t ride to war, anyway. Now the Devlins—or what’s left of us, anyway-are trying to rebuild the stud, but it takes cash. So I’m here in Abilene to sell the herd we rounded up in south Texas. They’re runnin’ loose down there, free for the takin.’“

“’What’s left of us’?” she echoed. “Did you lose family…in the war?”

He nodded. “My mother almost died of grief. My brother Caleb, the middle boy, never came home, and neither did my sister Annie’s husband—but at least we got a letter from his captain telling us where he fell. Garrick, my oldest brother, might as well have died. They cut his leg off after it was shattered by a minié ball, and now he just sits around the house and feels sorry for himself. I guess I would, too,” he added, feeling guilty for criticizing the brother he’d idolized when they’d been growing up together. “There isn’t much he can do around the farm.”

She reached out a hand and touched his wrist. “No, you wouldn’t,” she said with sudden certainty. At his surprised look, she added, “I know, I haven’t known you long enough to say that, but I just know you wouldn’t. You’d find a way to do what had to be done. Did your brothers have wives?”

He allowed himself a bitter laugh. “Garrick’s wife ran off the morning after he came home. Couldn’t face the sight of him, I reckon. Cal hadn’t married yet—fortunately, as it turned out—though every mama in the county wanted her daughter to marry the parson.”

“Your brother was a preacher?”

He nodded, thinking how easy she was to talk to. “Yeah, but not the hellfire-an’-brimstone kind. He said you couldn’t teach people about God’s love that way. He went and fought for the Union army because of his beliefs. Shocked a lot of folks in Brazos County.”

“How did your family feel? Was your father angry?” she asked.