Page 53 of The Promise of Jenny Jones
“My mama taught me,” she said proudly. “So I would be ready when my papa came for us.”
“What a smart little girl you are.”
“Yes I am.”
“Smart enough to recognize horsesh—” Jenny paused and swallowed. “To recognize nonsense when she hears it. Dulcet, my butt.” Touching her heels to the mare’s flanks, she galloped away from them, leaving Ty and Graciela to eat the dust kicked up by her horse’s hooves.
By the time Ty’s gelding walked into the sun-baked little village, Jenny’s horse was tied in front of a sod-roofed shack, and she’d already arranged for food and a washtub.
As he dismounted and lifted Graciela to the ground, he examined a few of the brown faces drawn by curiosity to watch him. He couldn’t visualize any of them offering a room if he’d been the one asking.
“Buenos tardes,”he said, forcing his lips into a curve.
A chorus of smiles and greetings returned his salutation.
Son of a bitch. Maybe Jenny was right. Maybe he was a rude bastard. On the other hand, it was also possible that these people didn’t deserve his courtesy. Very likely someone from this village was already riding toward Verde Flores to inform Luis and Chulo that a gringo couple had ridden in with a Mexican child.
Jenny was unpacking her saddlebags when he and Graciela entered the one-room shack. The furnishings were primitive but included three hammocks, a rough-hewn table, and several stools. Privacy and shelter from the sun improved Ty’s spirits immediately.
“Senor Armijo is going to hang a red rag on the pole near the tracks. The morning train will stop when the engineer sees the signal. That’s taken care of.” Jenny’s gaze dropped to Graciela. “We’ll have bathwater in a few minutes and something to eat. Afterward, you need to rest and get some sleep.”
“It’s still light out. It isn’t even night yet.”
“A few days ago you were sick enough that I wondered if you were going to make it. And you look like you haven’t slept since then. You can hardly keep your eyes open. You need some sleep.”
As far as Jenny was concerned, the matter was settled even though Graciela stamped her feet and continued to argue. Jenny ignored her.
“It would help if you’d see to the horses,” she said to Ty. “So do it.”
Dropping his saddlebags next to hers, he narrowed his eyes. “Let’s get something straight right here, right now. You want something from me, you ask. You don’t order.”
Flipping back the hem of her poncho, she placed her hands on her hips and leaned forward. Her lips pulled back from her teeth. “It would be fricking dulcet of you if you’d condescend to unsaddle our horses, water and feed them. Would you please turn your butt around and go do it?”
“See?” Graciela shouted. “Shesaid fricking.”
He leaned forward too. “That is not the proper use of the word dulcet.”
“I don’t fricking care.”
Her chin came up next to his, and she stood so close that her breasts almost pushed into his chest. If his niece hadn’t been watching, Ty would have grabbed Jenny and kissed her senseless. He wanted to conquer her, wanted to crush the challenge in her eyes, wanted to drive into her and leave her whimpering for more.
“Yeah, you care.” The color streaking up her throat confirmed it. She didn’t like to use a word wrongly. A tight smile thinned his lips. “Do you like to fight in bed too?”
She threw a glance over her shoulder. “Shut up.”
“Do you scratch and bite?” he asked softly, staring at her mouth, enjoying the crimson rushing into her cheeks. “Do you like it rough? Or do you prefer long gentle strokes?”
Her mouth dropped open, and she sputtered. “Are you crazy? Get out of here. Go! Right now.” Shoving at him, she pushed him toward the door and almost into the man carrying a large washtub.
Grinning, Ty tipped his hat to Senor Armijo, then stepped into the late-afternoon sunshine.
She was weakening. She was going to topple and fall. When she did, he’d be there to catch her in his arms. By God, he thought with relish, this was going to be one coupling that he’d never forget. Neither would she.
Chapter Twelve
Jenny was so rattled that she undressed Graciela without even tossing a hint that the kid should do it herself. Sanders was a crafty bastard. But she recognized his game. She’d heard enough about courting to recognize wooing when she saw it. The darlin’s and honeys. The unexpected touches. The outrageous flattery and the suggestive remarks. It was all calculated to get her out of her trousers and into his bedroll.
“Dulcet, my butt.”
