cry or something. Her farm had to go. He expected her to crumple in the face of her impending loss. Instead she straightened her shoulders and bit her lower lip.
“Jeanne, don’t you see? Many people will benefit from the railroad.”
She began to crease tiny folds in her muslin apron. “No, I do not see,” she blazed. “I and my Manette, we will not benefit! Do we not matter here in America?”
“Sure, you matter,” Wash growled. “Every citizen matters. That’s what this country is built on.”
“But that is not true! If many people want one thing and two people do not want it, the many will win. Is that not so?”
Wash cleared his throat. “Well, uh, yeah. That’s democracy. The majority rules.”
Her chin came up. “But is that not unfair to the not majority people? To the two that wanted something else?”
He swallowed. Now that he thought about it, yeah, it did seem unfair.
Jeanne propped her hands at her waist. “So, I and my daughter should be pushed out of our home because the people in town want a railroad, yes?”
She had a point, all right. What happened to the rights of a single individual under majority rule? Hell, he was a lawyer; he should have an answer. A war had just been fought between the North and the South over the right of a single state to secede from the union against the will of the government. So what gave Grant Sykes the right to decide that Jeanne Nicolet was not important and his Oregon Central line was?
Money, that’s what. Ownership of the land. Sykes and the Oregon Central owned this land. The whole mess made his head ache.
“Well?” she demanded. Her eyes took on the most intriguing color he’d ever seen, kind of like green tree moss after a punishing rain. But they weren’t soft like moss; they were hard as agate.
“All I know is that the railroad is coming through here. You have to get out of the way.”
She gave him a long, steely look. “I will not move,” she announced through tight lips. “Not until I harvest my lavender.”
Good Lord, her precious lavender. This woman was the most single-minded female he’d ever encountered. His mother had been stubborn, but Jeanne…Jeanne was unmovable as a brick wall.
He reached out to touch her arm. “Jeanne, listen.” Under his fingers the smooth gingham warmed with her body heat. A jolt of yearning skip-hopped into his vitals.
She was a singular woman, all right. She was the starchiest female he’d ever encountered, all prickles and “but this’s” and “but that’s.” Trying to reason with her reminded him of negotiating with an implacable Sioux chief. The Indians hadn’t wanted to move, either, and the news that most of them had died of starvation on the winter trail to the reservation made him sick to his stomach. He couldn’t stand to watch anything like that happen to Jeanne and her daughter.
But how was he going to convince her? What if he just hauled her into his arms and let her cry it out?
Because she wouldn’t cry, that’s what. Women with prickles didn’t weep. Women with prickles poked back.
“Could we sit down and talk for a minute?”
She nodded, but he noticed her chin stayed tucked close to her chest. “Oui. I will make coffee.” She called Manette in from the chicken house and opened the cabin door.
Grabbing off his hat, Wash crossed the entrance and followed her into the tiny kitchen. It smelled good, like fresh-baked bread. Four round loaves sat cooling on the wooden table.
It was quiet except for the whisper of trees in the soft wind. Good. Peace and quiet. Now he could make her see some sense.
“Jeanne…”
She kept her hands busy grinding the coffee mill and did not look up. “You like your coffee black, do you not?”
“I— Sure.” Wash turned his hat around and around in his fingers until the brim was sweat-damp. “Black is fine.”
“Bon. I, too, like it black. And strong.” She tipped the ground coffee into a waiting pot of cold water. Her hands shook so violently some of the coffee missed the pot and sifted over the counter.
Wash wiped one hand over the smooth wood, swept the spilled grounds into his hand, then looked around the tidy kitchen for some place to dump them. Finally, in desperation, he dropped them into the crown of his hat.
He stepped toward her. “Jeanne, we have to talk about—”
She moved to one side and with jerky motions began cracking eggs into an iron skillet. “In France I took my morning café with milk. Maman brought it to me in bed, and we would talk.”
The thought of her in bed made his mouth go dry. “We’re not in France,” he growled. “We’re here, in your kitchen.”
“I was only twelve,” she said quickly, running a fork through the eggs. “Maman, she was good to me. We had long talks about Papa and my little brother.”
He moved toward her. “Jeanne, you’re not twelve now.”
She turned her back to him.
Dammit. He tramped out of the front door onto the porch, paced to the steps and back three times, then wheeled and strode back into the warm kitchen. He still cradled his Stetson with the coffee grains in the crown.
Jeanne was wrapping her apron around the handle of an iron skillet of scrambled eggs, which she then yanked off the stovetop. She headed straight for him. “Très chaud. Very hot.”
“I like things hot.” He spoke without thinking, then swallowed hard. He knew she’d heard him, because she clanked the skillet down hard onto the kitchen table.
“I learn from Maman how to cook. Our hens laid many—”
That was all he could take. “Would you just stand still for one damn minute and listen?” he shot. “One thing your mama didn’t teach you was how to have a conversation!”
Jeanne sent him a look that would broil steak, and for a moment he thought he’d gotten past her defenses. But in the next second he saw he was mistaken.
“Maman,” she said in a determined tone, “had a special way with une omelette. She tip the pan just so…” Jeanne demonstrated, then pivoted away from the table and bent over the wooden sink, her back to him.
Dammit, he was trying to tell her something and she just plain wasn’t going to listen. He stepped up behind her, close enough to smell her hair. “Stop talking about your maman.”
Her head came up but her hands in the wooden sink fell idle. She’d heard him, all right. She just didn’t want to admit it.
“Jeanne…”
She began to scrub hard at a china plate, then another, and another. Then a cup…
To hell with it. Wash groaned, spun on his heel and stomped out the cabin door. Halfway across
