She wrenched her mind away from him and forced her attention back to the matter at hand, playing a game of poker after supper.
“Now,” she said, anticipation in her voice. “Who is going to accompany me to the saloon?”
The entire table of men jolted to their feet. All except Zach, who sat with a half-worried, half-bemused expression on his face. Oh, how she enjoyed surprising this serious, upstanding man she’d fallen in love with.
She stood up slowly and watched his face change as his gaze moved from her mouth to her breasts and then to her eyes. She saw his desire for her, and it sent heat washing through every inch of her body. If he only knew what she was thinking, he would have her up the stairs and into her room and in his arms before she was a minute older.
She could feel her cheeks burning.
“Wait a minute,” Curly exclaimed. “We wanna have our pictures took with Miss Alex! There’s a photography place right next door to the saloon. C’mon.” Ostentatiously he offered her his arm.
“Very well, gentlemen, a photograph it is. Curly and I will lead the way.”
Full of himself and a fine dinner, the muscular cowboy led the way to Henslee’s Photography Studio. Zach reluctantly followed them.
The proprietor was just locking up his shop, and when he caught sight of them from inside his front window, he waved them off. “Closed,” he mouthed.
Curly tapped on the glass. “No, ya ain’t,” he insisted. “Open up.”
The photographer cracked the door open a scant inch. “I told you, mister, the studio is closed.”
Skip shoved the door forward another inch. “Well, open it back up! Got some famous people out here wantin’ their picture took.”
At that, the door swung wide open and a short, pale man with thick glasses stepped forward. “Famous? Who’re you talkin’ about, sonny?”
“Her,” Skip and Curly said together. Skip extended his hand and pulled Alex forward.
The photographer’s eyebrows went up. “Oh. Didn’t see you there, Miss. Uh...are you fam—I mean, are you someone I should recognize?”
“She sure is,” a chorus of male voices assured him. “And we’re all famous, too. Or we’re gonna be, soon as Miss Murray gets back to Chicago.”
“Chicago, hmm? What, exactly, is it about Chicago that is significant, miss?”
“Chicago,” she said demurely, “is where the Chicago Times is located.” She paused. “The newspaper I write for.”
“Oh,” Mr. Henslee said.
“And publish photographs for,” she added.
“Oh?”
She smiled at him. “Giving the photographs I publish in the newspaper full photography studio credits.”
“Oh! Well, then, why don’t you all step right in here and let me set up my camera.”
Zach took her arm and conducted her inside, and the entire crew of the Rocking K crowded in behind them.
“This way, miss,” Mr. Henslee invited. “And...” he cast a doubtful eye over the cowhands “...gentlemen.” He pointed to a backdrop of blue drapery. “Stand right over there, please. And you, Miss Murray, is it?” He pulled an ornate wooden chair forward. “Please be seated.”
She settled herself in the chair and rearranged her skirt. Zach stepped up beside her and rested one hand on the high carved back. The other hands fell in behind them, jostling for positions near Alex.
“I dowanna stand in back,” Skip complained. “Can’t see over Curly’s big fat head.”
“Aw, shut up, Skip. Shoulda growed more when you was young. Guess you didn’t eat enough beef.”
“Hold still, now,” Mr. Henslee insisted. He disappeared underneath his black camera hood. Alex could see how difficult it was for the men not to fidget. Surreptiously, Zach moved his hand to rest on her shoulder.
“Hold it. Hold it...” A puff of gray smoke wafted into the air, and the photographer waved the men away.
“And we’d like one more,” Zach announced. “Just Miss Murray and me.”
“Aw, c’mon, boss. We’re gonna take her to the saloon.”
Mr. Henslee’s eyes popped. “The saloon!” he spluttered. “Really?”
“Really,” Zach said sharply. “Get on with the picture taking.”
The photographer directed him to sit in the fancy upholstered chair with Alex now standing behind him. When he disappeared under the camera hood, she stepped in close and grazed his shoulder with her hand.
“Hold still, now.” Henslee called out as she gently pressed Zach’s shoulder.
“Got it!” the photographer announced when the smoke cleared. “Y’all can pick ’em up tomorrow morning.”
“We’ll pick them up tonight,” Zach said quietly. “Miss Murray is catching the eastbound train tomorrow morning.”
“Sorry, mister, that won’t be possible. It takes time to develop photographs, you know.”
“How much time?”
“Well, let me see. I’d say at least three or four hours.”
“That gives you till midnight, Mr. Henslee. Unless...”
Alex picked up her cue. “Unless you want it noted in the Chicago Times.”
The eyebrows went up again. “Want what noted?”
“That there was to be a photograph accompanying my article, but...” she smiled sweetly “...the photography studio was...late. And that Henslee’s Photography Studio is slow to...” She let the sentence trail off suggestively.
Henslee sighed. “All right, all right. Your photographs will be ready by midnight.”
Juan stepped forward and offered his arm. “Come, Señorita Alex. You want to see saloon? I escort you.”
“And me,” Curly added.
“And me, also,” Roberto said. He tipped his head close to hers. “Is risky what you do, señorita. Men don’ like ladies in saloon.”
“Aw, she’s got us to protect her!” Curly blustered. He led the way out of Mr. Henslee’s studio and into the Rocky Rooster saloon.
Zach watched Dusty disappear through the bar’s swinging doors on Juan’s arm with a sinking feeling in his gut. She’d sure surprised him on this drive. She’d surprised all of them, he admitted. And, he thought with a wry grin, she’d won a wagonload of respect from his men.
That was unheard-of for this bunch of hard-bitten ranch hands who’d rather make fun of their cohorts than say anything even halfway nice. He’d heard them say plenty of nice things about Dusty when they didn’t know he was listening.
Lord God, he would miss her. He couldn’t imagine riding four hundred miles back to Smoke River without her smile and her questions and her prettiness and her sass and her soft blue eyes meeting his over the campfire.
Hell and damn, Strickland, you need a drink!
When he entered the saloon the scene that met him made him laugh out loud and then tightened his throat into a knot. Dusty sat at a big round corner table like a queen holding court. Curly was just sliding a glass of what Zach assumed was whiskey, watered down, he hoped, in front of her, and Juan was leaning in, probably explaining what it was.
Zach took the empty chair across from her, crossed his long legs in front of him and settled down to watch. Mostly, he admitted to himself, he was settling down to just watch Dusty and nurse his aching heart.
It was hard to sit so close to her and not touch her. Hard to acknowledge that Dusty had won not only the hearts of his rough Rocking K trail crew, right down to his chuck wagon cook and Cherry, his aging horse wrangler, but his own heart, as well.
It was doubly hard to face the fact that it was ending.
Dusty studied the glass of whiskey before her for a long minute and glanced around the table at the avid faces of his men. Then she bit her lip, drew in a long, determined breath and raised the whiskey to her lips.
She’d had a sip of liquor before, Zach remembered. A nip from the watered-down bottle Roberto kept hidden in the chuck wagon. But that would be nothing compared to a full gulp of the real stuff.
As the liquor hit her throat, Zach saw her eyes widen, and then she swallowed. Or tried to. She didn’t cough or sputter like he thought she would. Instead she blinked hard and tears rose in her eyes and hung on her lashes like big trembly diamonds. She swallowed hard and closed her lids for a long moment. Her lips tightened and then her eyes opened again.
Zach felt his own eyes sting. Go ahead and cough, honey. Get rid of that stuff burning your throat.
But she didn’t. She sat without moving a muscle while every single cowhand, even the usually imperturbable Roberto, leaned forward, waiting. Finally she opened her mouth.
“That tastes perfectly awful,” she rasped. She picked up her glass and took another swig. After a long moment she asked an unexpected question. “How can any of you drink this stuff? It tastes like...like...”
“Horse piss?” Curly volunteered with a chuckle.
“Printer’s ink,” she shot back.
“Ain’t never tasted printer’s ink,” Skip said.
“Ain’t never tasted horse piss, neither,” Curly retorted.
The men laughed, and Curly vacated his chair and sauntered back to the bar.
Zach heard him tell the bartender to pour him a shot of “horse piss.” His point rider sure had a sense of humor. Even Dusty laughed.