Page 32 of The Promise of Jenny Jones
“Jenny wouldn’t break a promise!” A tear ran down her cheek. “Jenny says a person isn’t worth a fricking spit if he breaks a promise!” Another tear dropped on the bodice of her maroon riding outfit.
“Look, don’t cry. All right?” A man was never so helpless as when faced with a woman’s tears. A child’s tears were even worse. “We won’t decide anything right now,” he heard himself say. “We’ll talk about it later when you’re calmer.” Right now, he wasn’t too calm himself. “Maybe you should wipe your nose.”
To his great relief she managed to remove a snowy handkerchief from her cuff without dropping the reins.
“Jenny says a promise is sacred.” Her voice muffled inside the handkerchief. “Jenny says anyone who breaks a fricking promise might as well put a gun to his head.”
A little of “Jenny says” went a long way, he decided irritably. “Don’t swear.”
“I’m only telling you what Jenny said.”
“I get the point, all right? Jenny Jones does not break her promises.” Thin-lipped, he stared toward the sinking sun. In the future, he would be damned careful what he said and how he said it. Apparently children accepted every word as gospel.
Meanwhile, he didn’t know how he was going to get around this obstacle, only that he had to.
He was still pondering the problem when they stopped to set up camp for the night, still thinking about how to pick up the pace while he tethered the horses, watered them, then dug a fire pit and unpacked provisions.
“I can fill your coffeepot.”
“I’ll do it,” he said absently. She might fall in the small stream that ran near the campsite. When he returned from the stream, he noticed that she had unrolled the bedrolls.
“I can hang the coffeepot over the fire.”
“I’ve already got it.”
She pursed her lips, then sat down on her saddle and folded her hands in her lap. “I don’t know how to cook,” she informed him, watching as he set out the skillet. As if there was any way in hell that he would have allowed her to get that close to the flames. “Will you teach me how?”
“Aren’t you kind of young to be cooking?” He shredded some boiled beef with his knife, added dried onion, and rolled the bits inside a tortilla before he placed them in the iron skillet and set the skillet on the fire to heat. He cut some more beef, more onions.
“Jenny says I should know how to cook by now.”
He gazed at her above the flames licking the bottom of the coffeepot. “For someone who professes to hate Jenny Jones, you sure quote her a lot.”
“No, I don’t. She’s not a lady. Did you know that she has hair between her legs?” Graciela shuddered. “Don’t you think that’s disgusting?”
Ty froze, and the tortilla dropped from boneless fingers into the dirt. Heat scalded his throat and jaw. Ducking his head, he stared at the tortilla, took his time picking it up and brushing off the sandy dirt. “Ah… well…” He cleared his throat with a strange-sounding cough.
And he wished like hell that he was anywhere on earth but here with this child. Silently he cursed Robert for asking him to undertake this errand. He cursed Marguarita for getting pregnant in the first place. He cursed himself for discovering a modest streak that he hadn’t even suspected.
“Jenny says all grown-up women have hair between their legs.” Her raised eyebrow conveyed enormous skepticism. “That’s not true, is it?”
Oh God. Agony twitched his muscles, pulled down the corners of his mouth. The last time he’d squirmed like this, he’d been a schoolboy. Raising his knife to within an inch of his eyes, he inspected the blade with intense scrutiny.
“Ah… didn’t you say that Jenny Jones never lies?” There was a nick that he hadn’t noticed before. He’d have to fix that.
Graciela heaved a huge sigh, her shoulders dropped, and she directed a sad stare toward her toes. “So it’s true,” she said mournfully. “Well,I’mnot going to grow hair between my legs.”
He was dying, absolutely dying. When he could trust himself to speak, he cleared his throat with a choking sound and said, “A couple of these are hot. Fetch one of those plates.” His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.
And his treacherous mind flung visions of a naked Jenny in front of his eyes. Damn it, he couldseea triangular patch as coppery as the flames blurring in front of his gaze.
“Look,” he said, struggling against images no decent man should imagine in the presence of an innocent child, “we’ll give the horse problem another day, all right? But we have to cover more ground. We’ll trot and walk, trot and walk, until you’re comfortable.”
He’d known a redheaded whore in San Francisco. Her skin had been milk white, brushed with flame down there. Oh God, he couldn’t think about this in front of his six-year-old niece. What kind of man was he? Sweating slightly, he poured a cup of coffee and watched her eat, making himself think about tomorrow’s ride.
“Uncle Ty?”
“What?”
