A Wanted Man Read online

  “If you’re uncomfortable,” Laura said, “you’re welcome to go on back.”

  “And leave you here alone?”

  “I’m hardly alone.”

  And that was what kept her there. She didn’t know where to look, what sight to drink in first. Certainly she should be studying the landscape outside, noting the wide sweep of land as they rolled out of Omaha, judging the light, the way buildings clustering around the city’s center thinned as they pulled away. It was why she’d come there, after all, and it was all so different from anything she’d ever seen before.

  It was not that her world wasn’t lovely; outrageously beautiful, in truth, the envy of most. She would have to be almost criminally ungrateful not to realize she lived a privileged life. It had just been so very unchanging, carefully and precisely bounded. She understood that it was so because her family loved her, and that because they had come so close to losing her once, they’d been determined to keep her safe, wrapped in batting and boxed away like precious crystal. Understanding why it had been so had not kept her from longing to see other places, other faces, than the ones she’d memorized years ago.

  And here she was at last. She couldn’t keep from grinning ear to ear like a child at Christmas.

  The shimmy and bump of the car over the tracks made it impossible to sketch with anything approaching the precision her project required. At Kearney they’d unhitch from the train for a few days, and she’d have plenty of time to study the landscape. But this particular train would go on without them, and she’d never again get to study exactly these faces.

  Three seats ahead there was a dumpling of a woman, all soft hills under faded blue gingham, her cheeks round as rising buns, hair white as good flour. A keen-eyed pastor in black, his white collar in sharp relief against a jet lapel, scanned the car constantly, frowning, as if on perpetual alert for signs of sin and decadence.

  So many interesting faces…In the far corner, almost unnoticed, a young man in a tan suit nearly disappeared into his seat. He had the blandest countenance Laura had ever seen, a perfectly round face topped with a thin fringe of beige hair the exact shade of his skin. Even this man’s face, absolutely forgettable, interested her. How could it be so utterly without character?

  So very unlike the man on the platform. Without thinking, she twisted around again. There was certainly nothing innocuous about his looks. A sculptor might have better luck than a painter, she decided, capturing that look of danger in hard, cold surfaces and edges so sharp they’d draw blood at a touch.

  And then he looked at her—full on, no pretense of a polite, accidental grazing of gazes. The intensity simmering in his eyes stole her breath and froze her smile in place.

  My goodness. The corners of his mouth curved up, not quite a smile, but enough to make her heart thump. She wondered what it would be like if he really smiled and decided it was best if she never found out, if just the promise of one was so potent.

  “I’m not the least bit alone,” Laura repeated.

  “That’s precisely what concerns me.” Mrs. Bossidy followed Laura’s gaze. “Laura!” she snapped. “The man is a rogue at best and quite probably a bandit. Just look at him!”

  “Perhaps that is wishful thinking on your part?”

  “Why ever would I want him to rob us?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Laura said lightly. “A bit of excitement, perhaps. This trip promises to be less than fascinating for you. Just think of it—the dashing outlaw holding you captive, you obligated to do whatever he orders you upon pain of your life…”

  “Laura!”

  “He’s very handsome, don’t you think?”

  Mrs. Bossidy pokered up immediately, pinching her lips together until they almost disappeared. “If you keep saying such things, I’m going to drag you home to Newport, the painting be…well, the painting would be of no matter. You’ve done all the others without visiting the places yourself. You can do it again.”

  “I’m sorry,” Laura said quickly, unwilling to risk the slightest chance that they must go home before they had begun. She would rather not paint at all than continue to work off secondary sources alone. And if she stopped painting…her work was such a large part of her life, perhaps most of her life, that she couldn’t imagine what she would do without it. What she would be without it.

  “I didn’t mean to tease,” she went on. “It’s just that—” She stopped, her gaze sliding over Mrs. Bossidy as she thought, not for the first time, that her companion must have been an extremely young bride and widow before she came to work for the Hamiltons. And a very beautiful one at that. She was still an attractive woman, if one looked past the severe arrangement of her hair, the perpetually pinched expression, and the dark, enveloping dresses that made a nun’s habit seem bold. Laura doubted that most men bothered.

  “It was very wise of you,” Mrs. Bossidy said, “to refrain from saying whatever it is you were about to say.”

  “I was not being wise. I’m just enjoying myself too much to argue about how mourning was never meant to extend for fifteen years and how I’m certain that anyone who truly cared for you would not want you never to enjoy your life again.”

  “What makes you think I don’t enjoy my life?”

  Perhaps the fact that she’d never seen her companion laugh at anyone but her, and seldom enough at that.

  When Laura didn’t answer, Mrs. Bossidy bent and whacked her handbag across the burly, corduroy-clad knee of Hiram, who dozed comfortably in the seat across from them. He snorted, then settled back into his dreams, his thick chin dropping to a chest broad as the Missouri.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She took a firmer grip on her bag, fisting both hands around the strings, and swung like Big Dan Brouthers, the home run champ.

  “Wha—” Hiram sprang up like a nervous frog, head swinging wildly from side to side. When he realized every head in the car had turned his way, he lifted both his hands in a placating gesture. “Sorry. A…wasp. Terribly annoying. Bad wasp.” Scowling at Mrs. Bossidy, he gingerly lowered himself back into his seat, eyeing her handbag as if expecting another slug at any moment.

  “I fail to see,” Mrs. Bossidy said crisply, “how you properly guard your charge when you are dead asleep.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He glanced around at the assortment of passengers, most snoozing, the rest, eyes glazed, staring out the windows. A young boy of perhaps four bounced down the aisle, heading for the ceramic jug of ice water in the far corner near the lavatory. “Looks really dangerous to me.” He hooked a thumb at a crinkled woman who couldn’t weigh more than eighty pounds, hunched in her seat with her hands gnarled around a mahogany cane. “I figure she’s the one most likely to give us trouble. What do you think?”

  “I think that you’re paid extremely well to worry about such things, which you’d do well to remember if you wish to continue to enjoy such fortunate circumstances. Now, would you like to wake Mr. Hoxie, or should I?”

  “Oh, be my guest,” he said.

  “Children, children,” Laura chided them. “Surely there is no need to poke at each other in an attempt to entertain yourselves.”

  Erastus Hoxie, who was as compact as Hiram Peel was large but, rumor had it, twice as tough, not to mention twice as old, had dropped off to sleep within five minutes of the train pulling out of the station. His head dropped back against the deep green cushion, his mouth slack, a thin trickle of drool seeping from the corner. “And let Mr. Hoxie rest,” Laura went on fondly. “He looks far too comfortable to disturb.”

  A series of muffled pops came from outside the train: two, close together, a brief pause, and then perhaps half a dozen more in quick succession. Around her, passengers roused slowly, mumbling. Mrs. Bossidy stiffened, and Hiram jerked up, suddenly alert.

  Metal screeched on metal. The train lurched, then slowed, the rapid blur of scenery outside coming into focus. Hiram swore, a word so foul Laura glanced at Mrs. Bossidy, expecting a tirade about Laura’s tender ears. But she was f
lushed, her eyes wide and mouth tense.

  Somewhere behind Laura a woman cried out, the sound dropping abruptly off into silence.

  “Hiram?” Laura ventured.

  “Shh,” he said, his expression grim. “Stay right here. Don’t move, don’t draw any attention to yourself.” He gently poked the slumbering Mr. Hoxie with his elbow, a prod that had no effect. Hiram sighed and this time rammed his elbow into Hoxie’s ribs with enough force that Laura winced. Hoxie snorted like a rooting pig and blinked awake. “Wha—”

  “Hold-up.” His voice was pitched low, intended only for his partner, but the women caught it. Mrs. Bossidy gasped, and Laura instinctively spun to check the back platform.

  It was empty.

  “Turn around.” This time Mrs. Bossidy’s hand on her knee slammed down in a painful warning. “Don’t move, don’t say anything. Make yourself as inconspicuous as possible. If someone points a gun in your direction, give them whatever they want.”

  “But who, there’s no one here.” Laura couldn’t seem to work up the edgy concern gripping the rest of the passengers. It was too unreal—only a few moments ago she’d joked about the train being robbed, and now, with no clear evidence she could see, everyone assumed they were smack-dab in the middle of a hold-up.

  She couldn’t help but catalog the details. All those faces were even more interesting now, the veneer peeled away to reveal naked fear or determination or shock. If only she knew how to portray that on paper, the core of a person, the essence of emotion stripped bare. Capturing that split moment of revelation was when a painter moved from faithful recorder to true artist.

  Hiram eased up in his chair. She was so accustomed to him jovial and relaxed, lobbing thinly veiled—and sometimes not so veiled—insults back and forth with Mrs. Bossidy, that she couldn’t help but stare. She knew perfectly well that Hiram and Mr. Hoxie were her bodyguards; she just never thought of them that way. She’d never required anything from them but companionship and sturdy backs, functions they performed with admirable cheer. The sudden transformation of his demeanor was so dramatic that a thin blade of fear sliced through her fascination.

  His hands hovered at his waist, sliding slowly to attract no attention, looping beneath the baggy flap of his corduroy jacket. A gun? she wondered. Had Hiram been armed all this time, and she hadn’t known?

  Of course he had. Foolish of her not to have realized. She’d just never given it any thought.

  “Stop right there.” The command cracked through the air. The mousy, bland little man Laura had assumed no one would notice—well, everyone noticed him now all right, as he jammed his pistol in Hiram’s lower back. “Lift your hands. Easy now, no sudden moves. I might not be the best shot in the world, but I’m thinkin’ I’m pretty accurate from this range.”

  And there it was, the fear that gripped the rest of the passengers finally taking full hold on her. Painful. She hadn’t expected that, but it was—it burned in her extremities, needle pricks in her fingers, toes, even the skin of her face, like blood rushing back to a benumbed limb.

  Hiram cut his eyes toward Hoxie, a quick instant of communication. One of them, two of us…

  “Oh,” the robber said mildly, “and I’d make sure your friend there doesn’t move, either. Preacher, you got everybody covered?”

  “Got ’em.” Some preacher. Amazing how a clerical collar made anybody instantly trustworthy. It took the merest glance now to peg the preacher as trouble, with that wicked glitter in his eyes and a cruel grin that bordered on maniacal. He’d taken a position at the front of the car, back to the door, between the water jug and the lavatory. He carried two guns like he spent more time with them in his hands than without and kept them trained on the cabin.

  Just for fun, he reached over and gave the water jug a shove with his forearm. It shattered as it hit the floor, ice and shards of crockery flying, the crash tremendous. People ducked and flung their arms over their heads. Several women shrieked. One, a plump and pretty middle-aged matron wearing a great wheel of a straw hat, cried out, her hand going to her face where a fragment had sliced her cheek. Blood trickled beneath her fingers.

  The train, its massive momentum finally spent, rolled to a stop. The car gave a final lurch, unsettling the two men standing, causing the nearest bandit to fling out his hands in reflexive balance.

  The opening was brief. Hiram surged to his feet, a quick whoosh of motion. An instant later the robber recovered, bashing Hiram’s head with the butt of his pistol. Hiram went down like a rock, back into his seat. His arms flopped loosely, booted legs sprawling until one toe touched the hem of Mrs. Bossidy’s dress.

  Her lip curled. “One would have thought that noggin of his was too hard to be damaged by a mere rap.”

  The mild-faced robber tsked. “Shouldn’ta moved.” His gaze flicked to the two women. “Well, now, I imagine the two of you will have somethin’ for us, won’t ya?”

  Mrs. Bossidy flung herself sideways, pressing Laura back against the seat, shielding her with her body. “You’ll get nothing from her without going through me first. And I vow to make that such a difficult task that it will not be worth your while. Not at all.”

  He flashed a set of even teeth. “Promise?” Then he raised his voice to carry throughout the car. “Listen up, folks. Pretty easy, here—anything you got that’s worth anythin’, toss it in the bag as the preacher goes up and down the aisle. Some of our friends are up front with the engineer, and stationed throughout the train just like we were, and all in all it’ll be the smartest thing to get it over with as soon as possible. You can try and hide somethin’, but I wouldn’t. It’ll only make us hafta look for it.” He looked directly at Mrs. Bossidy as he continued, “Come to think of it, go ahead and try.”

  Laura tried to nudge Mrs. Bossidy back into place. No luck; she was a lot sturdier than she looked.

  “Preacher? Get started.”

  Preacher slid one of his guns into the holster hidden beneath his black coat and pulled out a sagging canvas bag. He looked down as he shook it open…and never looked up. The door behind him burst open. He wheeled halfway around as a body rocketed through the door, driving him down to the floor. One of his guns fired, the blast deafening in the small space. Paneling shattered, bits raining down from the hole where the bullet slammed into the ceiling.

  Impressions flashed, too many for Laura to capture: the bland-faced robber spinning to see what had happened at the doorway; Hoxie surging out of his seat, vaulting over the back, and tackling him in the aisle; men leaping from all directions as if they’d been awaiting the opportunity, now unleashed, shouting, arms flailing.

  Unthinkingly, Laura shoved Mrs. Bossidy away and stood, craning her neck to see.

  Preacher was on the floor, facedown and spread-eagled, a knee on his back and a gun to his head.

  It was him. Him. The dark man who’d disappeared from the back platform had somehow come through the front door and subdued the robber in an instant.

  Chapter 2

  “Get down.” Mrs. Bossidy yanked on her skirt.

  “Don’t worry,” Laura told her. “Everything’s under control.”

  And indeed it was. A half dozen men surrounded each robber, fists clenched, belatedly prepared to play the hero. It was entirely unnecessary; the dark man had the preacher thoroughly subdued, and Hoxie had apparently knocked the other one out cold.

  “Need any help back there?” His voice was low-pitched, smooth as melted chocolate. Laura had expected it to be rough, as harsh-sounding as the rest of him appeared. But it was warm, carefully modulated, the kind of voice made to murmur of love and secret things, a voice that might recite poetry and issue orders with equal ease.

  “Nope,” Hoxie answered cheerfully, climbing to his feet. “Two jabs and a left hook and he went down harder’n Glass Jaw Gillespie.” Rocking back on his heels, he cracked his knuckles, more energized than Laura had ever seen him.

  The man nodded. “Anyone got some rope?”

  No o
ne moved, as if, in the lull following that eruption of intensity, they couldn’t think clearly enough to understand the question.

  “How about this?” Laura said at last, moving toward the aisle.

  “Laura!”

  “Oh, hush,” she said, brushing past Mrs. Bossidy. She worked at the fastening of the sash wrapped around her waist as she threaded her way through the men crowding the aisle and stepped around the limp body on the floor, resisting the most unladylike urge to give him a swift kick as she passed. Now where had that come from? She’d never suspected she had a violent streak, and Mr. Hoxie would likely be more than happy to mete out a bit more punishment should it become necessary.

  “Here.” She waved the drift of turquoise silk when she reached the end of the aisle, more breathless than the brief walk warranted, even for her. But she’d had an unusual and exciting experience; an accelerated heartbeat should be excused under such circumstances.

  “A scarf?” Keeping the gun in place, the dark stranger sat back a fraction, tilting his head so he could look up at her from beneath the brim of his hat.

  His eyes were dark, so dark. Blacker than midnight, twice as compelling, giving absolutely nothing away. I should have known, she thought. She’d wondered about his eyes, conjured deep sapphire and gray and a warm, rich brown. And now she couldn’t imagine them any other way. No wonder she never did portraits, if she hadn’t pegged the inevitability of that color right off.

  “It’s silk. Very strong. It’ll hold him, don’t worry.”

  His gaze dropped to the swath in her hand, the vibrantly colored fabric rippling because it was so fine that the slightest breeze, even a breath, set it in motion. She held it out to him, waiting.

  “It’s too good to be wasted on the likes of him.”