Page 21 of The Promise of Jenny Jones

Two minutes after Ty carried Graciela out of Jenny Jones’s room, it struck him that he faced an uncomfortable problem which he had not anticipated.

Where was he going to take her? After Jenny’s offensive misconception, he felt distinctly uneasy about checking into a decent hotel with a young Mexican girl in his arms. A rowdy town the size of Durango had hotels where no one would blink at a man taking a young girl to his room, but the thought of anyone mistaking Ty for such a man twisted his gut in knots.

As he carried his sleeping niece down dark, deserted streets, he rejected the possibility of riding out of Durango tonight and avoiding the hotel problem.

Even if Graciela were wide-awake and alert, he didn’t know where he could buy a horse at this hour.

He had to find a hotel. In the end, hating it, he settled for a fleabag where no questions would be asked.

Angry and embarrassed, he carried the child up a flight of stairs, wanting to smash a knowing smirk deep into the hotel clerk’s sly face.

There was a lesson here, he thought grimly.

No more hotels. And his decision to avoid the train was correct.

An Americano and a small Mexican girl were certain to draw attention and unpleasant speculation.

The sickening roll in his stomach warned that his pride would not withstand that kind of prurient curiosity.

He’d be setting himself up for a dozen fights.

Inside a shabby room, he laid Graciela on a bed that sagged toward the center, hesitated, then removed her hat. She roused slightly when he pulled off her boots, then she sank into the pillow, sighed, and again fell asleep.

After tossing his own hat toward a scarred bureau, he removed his gun belt, sat on a stool beside the window, flexed his shoulders, and let the enormity of tonight’s business sweep over him.

The hotel problem underscored the sobering fact that he didn’t know a damned thing about children.

Especially girl children. Already it was evident that traveling with a young girl was going to present unique problems. Since he had assumed that Marguarita would accompany him back to California, he had also assumed that she would take care of her child.

He hadn’t wasted a single thought on Marguarita’s offspring, hadn’t anticipated that the child would have anything to do with him.

Lifting his head, he gazed across the room, frowning at a bar of moonlight drifting across the bed and illuminating Graciela’s small features.

Ty hadn’t known Marguarita well; he didn’t remember much about her.

But he saw Marguarita in the child. Graciela’s hair was soft brown and her skin was light, but no one would mistake her Mexican heritage.

Aside from her eyes and mouth, she didn’t resemble anyone in the Sanders family tree.

Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on his thighs and pushed a hand through the hair falling across his forehead.

Cal Sanders had refused to accept Robert’s marriage because Cal could not bear the thought of Mexican grandchildren.

That a Mexican might one day inherit the fruits of Sanders labor was an abomination too repugnant to contemplate.

It was offensive enough that the Sanders ranch adjoined Barrancas lands; that the two families might intermingle was unthinkable to a man whose hatreds had been formed in his youth.

At age sixteen, Calvin Sanders had joined the American forces that invaded Mexico in ‘46. Ty’s father had left his right arm in a bean field outside Mexico City, ending his brief role in the invasion and beginning a hatred of all things Mexican that until his death three months ago had burned as hot as the pitch used to cauterize his stump.

Ty pulled a hand down his jaw, then tossed one of his boots at a rat scratching at a corner of the plank floor.

That Robert had challenged their father’s prejudice was one of life’s ironies.

Robert had been the amiable son, the son eager to please their father, whereas Ty had rebelled early.

Long before he attained manhood, Ty had accepted that he and his father would never understand each other, could not share the same room without arguing.

Each refused to bend. From childhood on, Ty’s goal had been to leave the ranch and his father’s dictates the minute he could support himself, and that’s what he had done.

His defection had wounded the old man, but he hadn’t drawn blood.

It was Robert, the favorite son, who damned near killed their father by marrying a senorita. And in the end, it was Ty who most resembled Cal Sanders.

Troubled, he stared through the darkness at the moonlit face of his brother’s daughter.

Already this child was challenging assumptions Ty had picked up at his father’s knee.

Graciela wasn’t a Mexican, as Cal would have dismissed her.

This child was Ty’s niece. His blood. The realization was throwing his thoughts into turmoil.

Leaning back, he stretched and turned his mind to something he could handle right now, Jenny Jones. An unconscious smile twitched his lips as he recalled his last sight of her, straining at the ropes, eyes flashing cold fire, swearing behind the napkin he’d shoved into her mouth.

It appalled him that he’d actually jumped into a punching match with a woman. A woman. Christ. But she’d given him no choice.

And what a woman she was.

Now that he didn’t have to think about protecting his face and crotch from her flying fists and knees, he was free to remember the soft weight of her breasts pressing against his chest and the firm tautness of her buttocks filling his hands. Lord.

Her breasts were the only soft parts of her anatomy. The rest of her was as tight and firm as a new whiskey barrel. And she didn’t lack for muscle, he thought, gingerly touching his sore nose.

In his time he’d met whores, workingwomen, a few rough numbers, but he’d never met anyone like Jenny Jones. She didn’t fit into any category that he could nail down.

If she’d killed an attacker, then she wasn’t a whore.

She earned her bread, but not in a manner that any woman he’d met would have chosen.

Unquestionably, she was a rough number, but he sensed that circumstance had shaped her, not choice.

And he’d observed flashes of vulnerability at odds with her tough manner and tongue.

Unaccountably, he also sensed a core of integrity and basic decency, qualities he didn’t ascribe to the crude, unfeminine women who thrust their way into the male world.

The fact was, he couldn’t get a fix on her.

Certainly he didn’t understand her position regarding his niece.

Her tone and words convinced him that she didn’t like Graciela.

Yet he’d witnessed a touch of tenderness when he followed them back to their hotel.

And she should have bowed out of the picture the instant she understood who Ty was, but she hadn’t.

Everything about this strange woman fascinated him in a way few other women had. He felt a twinge of regret that he wouldn’t see her again, would never learn what forces had formed her.

When he realized he was attempting to picture Jenny Jones dressed in a decent gown and with her hair grown out, he laughed softly.

Usually, he tried to imagine a certain kind of woman in a state of undress.

To his amusement, this was the first time he’d ever struggled to imagine a woman decked out in full Sunday flair.

Shaking his head and grinning, he folded his arms across his chest and leaned his back against the wall. He needed to get some shut-eye. Tomorrow was going to be a full day.

The first of several problems involved hairpins. Ty knew more about the outer universe than he knew about hairpins.

Frowning, he gazed down at his niece. The top of her head only reached his lower chest, but already he’d learned that short and small did not mean shy and quiet. “Say that again?”

“Well just look,” Graciela insisted, her eyes glistening with moist frustration. “My hair keeps falling down. It isn’t right. I need hairpins.”

“Your hair looks nice,” he said uncertainly, but it was the truth. Sheets of gleaming brown silk tumbled nearly to her waist. “I’d swear I’ve seen little girls with loose hair.”

Her eyes flashed reproach. “Proper young ladies do not wear loose hair in public.” She sounded as if this were so glaringly elementary that only a dolt could have failed to recognize the truth of it.

“If it’s that important to you,” he said, deciding to capitulate, “we’ll buy some hairpins.

” He had to assume she knew where a person purchased hairpins.

That thought led to another. “What else do you need?” He had carried her out of Jenny Jones’s hotel with only the clothing on her back.

“There’s some paper in my saddlebags. Make a list. Can you write? ”

“Sí”

It was then that he realized she was staring at him with an uncomfortably urgent expression and had been for several minutes. “What is it?”

“I, uh…” she cut a desperate glance toward the chamber pot. Bright crimson flooded her cheeks and suddenly his own.

“Oh.” There was no privacy screen in hotels like this one.

Positive that his face was on fire, he stood so abruptly that his chair crashed over behind him.

“I’ll just… I’ll step into the hallway for a minute or two.

” Abruptly he became aware of his own urgency.

“Don’t leave the room until I return. Don’t open the door to anyone but me. ”

Escaping, he rushed down the stairs, took care of business, then ran back up the staircase and halted outside the door. How long did it take a child to pee? He couldn’t just barge inside thinking enough time had passed. Maybe it hadn’t. Cursing beneath his breath, he knocked on the door.

“Come in,” called a prim little voice.

“I told you not to open the door to anyone but me,” he snapped.