A Wanted Man Read online

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  He lifted his head slowly, as if noting the thick cream silk of her shirtwaist, abundantly trimmed with hand-knotted lace her mother had imported from Brussels, pausing at the wide glint of gold that encircled her wrist and the swing of heavy sapphire drops at her ears. “Rich girl, hmm?” he asked, so mildly it held no sting.

  “Yes,” she admitted, just as mild. Though that knowledge often spawned strong reactions from others, from fawning obsequiousness to acid envy, it was merely a fact of her existence to Laura, holding no more emotion than that her hair was brown or that she was left-handed. She had nothing to do with earning her father’s fortune and minimal control over the use of it. She certainly appreciated its existence, since she understood that it made her life much more comfortable than it otherwise might have been; but that was about it. His wealth made some things much simpler and others far more complicated, an immutable part of her life that she’d long ago decided was best simply to accept and otherwise think about as little as possible.

  His expression lightened: a slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the barest lift of his mouth. About as near as he ever got to a smile, she figured, pleased all out of proportion to be the one who drew it.

  His fingers brushed hers. Warm, the rough calluses easily felt through the gossamer fabric, the texture and heat so different from hers that it was hard to believe they were the same thing, just two human hands. And then he threaded the scarf from her grasp, a quick glide of gauzy fabric.

  He glanced down at the prone figure on the floor, then back up at her. “You any good at knots?”

  “Not good enough that I want to trust my continued future to it.”

  “Okay, then, here.” He flipped the gun around and thrust the butt into her palm. She took it without thinking. “Don’t shoot me.”

  “I—” Belatedly realizing what he’d given her, she held it as far away from herself as she could manage. The metal was warm against her palm—his heat, she realized, transmitting itself to her. “I might,” she admitted.

  And there was the warming of his expression again, like the barest flicker of sunlight through a cloud-clotted sky. It could be dangerously addictive, she thought, prying that hint of warmth out of him.

  The preacher lifted his head an inch. “Didn’t I tell you not to move?” The man put his hand on the would-be robber’s head and shoved. The preacher’s forehead hit the floor with a solid thunk. “While she might wing me, too, I really don’t think she’s going to miss you completely from there, do you? At least, I wouldn’t want to bet my neck on it.”

  He looped his captive’s hands behind his back, twisting and tying his wrists together with her scarf with such proficiency Laura could only assume he’d tied up a few men in his time.

  “Thanks,” he said, and climbed to his feet. “I’m sure we all appreciate the sacrifice.”

  Events moved swiftly after that. Someone proffered a handful of the golden cords that held back the heavy swoops of draperies—so they hadn’t needed her scarf after all, she thought with a twinge of disappointment—and her mysterious hero had the bandit trussed like a chicken in an instant. He didn’t glance her way again, just strode down the aisle as if he owned the place until he stood over the still-unconscious thief that Mr. Hoxie guarded. Laura followed. No, not followed, she amended; she returned to her place. That he’d gone there first was merely a coincidence. Laura Hamilton did not follow men around, no matter how interesting they were.

  “Nice job,” he said, tossing Hoxie a coil of cording.

  “Thank you.” Hoxie tied up his prisoner, yanking his arms around so hard that Laura winced before she remembered the man deserved it.

  “There’re bound to be more of them in the other cars.”

  Hoxie stood up, more than a head shorter than the mysterious dark man. “Up front, too,” he agreed. “Probably came on horseback.” He inclined his head at the prone bandit. “He said so. From the sound of the shots outside, I figure he told the truth about that at least.”

  The man nodded once, unsurprised. Or completely unconcerned. Laura, on the other hand, was getting extremely concerned, if this was heading where she suspected it might.

  “Are you with me?” he asked.

  Hoxie popped his knuckles and grinned. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Oh, no you don’t.” Mrs. Bossidy inserted herself between the men, her skirts frothing into the aisle, and rounded on Mr. Hoxie. “You’re not leaving her here alone.”

  “Alone? There’re all kinds of people here.”

  “Two of whom fully intended to rob or shoot us or Lord only knows what else only moments ago.”

  “They’re not going to be causing any more trouble,” Hoxie said in the wheedling, petulant tones of a boy on the verge of having his fun spoiled. “And Hiram’s here.”

  “He’s unconscious!”

  “Oh, not for long.” Hopefully, he poked Hiram with his toe, drawing no response. “Probably not for long,” he amended.

  Apparently unwilling to wait any longer, the stranger spun for the door. Laura blocked his way.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  He intended to go charging recklessly into trouble. Alone. “Mr. Hoxie, go with him.” Laura had no way to stop the stranger, but she could at least ensure he was not completely without help.

  “Hoxie, stay right where you are.” When Mrs. Bossidy issued orders like that, Laura had always obeyed without question. Gainsaying her felt as odd as it did necessary.

  “Mr. Hoxie, which one of us is more likely to go to my father to get you fired?”

  “Bossidy,” he answered promptly.

  “All right,” Laura admitted. “But if she does so, I’ll go to him and get you rehired. If I’m the one to ask, however, she can’t veto me.”

  “Miss, there’s no time for this. Please step aside.”

  Laura faced her stranger squarely. “Can you use him? No pride, no heroics. Tell me the truth.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then go,” she said, and stepped aside. “Mr. Hoxie, you too.”

  Clearly torn, Hoxie shot a furtive glance at Mrs. Bossidy. It was perfectly obvious which of the two ladies frightened him more, and Laura made a mental note to work on a more commanding presence.

  But then the stranger strode down the aisle. Hoxie trotted after him.

  They stopped at the door. The man eased it open, peering cautiously out. He waved Hoxie through, stepped out himself, and they were gone.

  Out there. Where there were horrible men with guns and knives and who knew what other kinds of terrible things.

  “Do you think he’ll be all right?”

  “Of course he’ll be all right.” Mrs. Bossidy waved her hand in dismissal. “Hoxie’s always all right.”

  “No, I—” How terrible of her. She’d known Mr. Hoxie for more than half her life, and she was worrying about a man she had barely met. Hadn’t even really met, if it came right down to it.

  And it would never do if Mrs. Bossidy got even a whiff of such a thing. If she ever suspected that Laura had a weakness for mysterious, wicked-looking men, she’d have her bundled back to Sea Haven and locked away until she was too old for her clearly lamentable taste in men to matter.

  Not that Laura had ever suspected she had a predilection for men such as he. But then, she’d never known any. Novelty, she reflected, always had a certain allure. No doubt that was all there was to it. “But Mr. Hoxie’s not as young as he used to be,” she said, attempting to inject as much innocence and appropriate concern into her voice, failing miserably to her own ears. Prevarication, like flirting and tennis and kissing, was undoubtedly one of the things one must master as an adolescent or be forever poor at.

  But Mrs. Bossidy wasn’t attending close enough to notice. She stood, fists on her hips, over Hiram, still slumped in his chair but stirring. His head rolled from one side to the other, his sun-browned cheek speckled with the imprint of the crushed plush seat back, and
his lids fluttered. “Wouldn’t you know it,” she said. “The first opportunity in years for him to earn his pay, and he sleeps through it.”

  “I don’t think being concussed qualifies as sleeping.”

  “Sleeping, concussed. The end result’s the same, isn’t it?” She leaned over and patted him on the cheek, more firmly than was required. “Time to wake up.”

  “I think he’s coming around, anyway.”

  “Sweetheart, don’t spoil my fun,” she said, and thumped more firmly. “Come on, Mr. Peel. You’re missing everything as usual.”

  More gunshots. Five of them, maybe six. Enough to have Laura on the edge of her seat, hands clenched so tightly in her lap that her fingers went numb.

  The men in the car had propped the two well-trussed bandits in the corner of the car, where they’d slumped against the wall and glared at the passengers. Now and then a child—brave or dared into it—would sneak up to poke at them, only to be shooed away by their mothers.

  Hiram, once roused enough to understand what he’d missed, attempted to go after Mr. Hoxie and the stranger. But when he managed to push himself to his feet, he swayed as woozily as if he stood in a boat instead of a train. Mrs. Bossidy merely gave him a light shove, and he’d dropped back into his chair. “You stay right there. No telling who you might crush if you toppled over in an inconvenient place.”

  “Hey.” Palms facing her, he lifted his hands. “Whatever you say. Wouldn’t want you pushing me around.”

  “Hmm.” She tilted her head, considering. “Laura, what do you think? I do believe he’s got his hands in the exact same position as when he was meekly acquiescing to that horrible bandit. You know, the one that Mr. Hoxie dispatched so very efficiently.”

  He scowled at her. “Now see here—”

  “Oh, just stop it,” Laura snapped, her nerves frayed to a fine thread, her display of temper so rare that they stopped sniping and gaped at her instead.

  “Miss Hamilton.” Hiram patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “Hoxie’ll be fine. Heck, even if he did get popped with a slug or two, it’d take more than that—”

  “Mr. Peel!” Mrs. Bossidy broke in when Laura paled. “If that’s your attempt at cheering her up, God forbid you show up at a funeral and try to comfort the bereaved. You’d have people throwing themselves in the grave in no time.”

  He scowled. “I—”

  The door flew open, and Hoxie staggered through with a gun in his hand. He’d lost his hat, his jaw was puffing up on one side, and blood smeared the back of his hands. There was a rip in his jacket, and he was grinning like a kid who’d just been shown the candy store and told to “have at it.”

  A hum of concern and excitement greeted his arrival. “Not to worry, folks.” He stuck a thumb in his belt, as puffed up as a banty cock set free in a henhouse. “All safe and sound. We’ll be gettin’ under way again shortly.”

  Good as his promise, the steam whistle blast drowned out the questions tossed in his direction as he swaggered his way to the middle of the car.

  “What happened?” Laura asked, as soon he reached them. She raised to her tiptoes to peer over Mr. Hoxie’s shoulder, but no one else came through the door.

  Surely he will come back, she thought. He’d originally been riding on this car’s platform. And wouldn’t he want to check on his captives? “Is everything all right?”

  “It’s just fine,” Mr. Hoxie said, grinning, preparing to take his seat.

  “Wait, wait!” Mrs. Bossidy sprang up and pushed him away before his hindquarters landed. “You’re going to get blood all over the cushion.”

  “So? I practically saved the whole train. I don’t think anybody’s going to complain.”

  Mrs. Bossidy dug in the huge canvas bag she took with her everywhere, pulled out a thin dishcloth, and spread it over the seat. “There. Go ahead.”

  He dropped into his seat with a gusty sigh and slapped Hiram on his knee. “Hoo-wee, you missed it, bud! Haven’t had that much fun since—” He stopped, shooting a guilty glance in Laura’s direction. “Well, in quite a while.”

  “Is—” Laura raised her voice as the train picked up speed, clacking along steadily, an already-familiar sound. “Is everybody all right?”

  “Everybody but a couple of the robbers.” He shook his head. “There were at least ten of ’em, though a couple rode away when it was clear which way the wind was blowin’. Four came up on the engine, shootin’ at the engineers, and the rest were stationed in the passenger cars.” He chuckled. “All of ’em but these two are trussed up and stacked in a freight car.”

  “And he…he’s okay?”

  “Who?”

  If she squeezed them any tighter Laura’s fingers were going to be permanently welded together. But if she relaxed her grip, they were undoubtedly going to shake. “You know. Him.”

  “Oh, the dark avenger?”

  “The what?” Mrs. Bossidy snapped. “What kind of a stupid name is that? What kind of a man would call himself such a ridiculous thing? Sounds like something out of a penny dreadful.”

  “He didn’t call himself that. I did.” Mr. Hoxie smiled, clearly unoffended. “You should have seen him, bursting in with both guns drawn, like he thought being one against four was more than fair odds, bullets flying in all directions. Never seen anythin’ like it.” He rubbed his chin. “A novel, huh? You think I could write one of those?”

  “No,” Mrs. Bossidy said.

  “Did anybody get shot?” Laura couldn’t imagine that one man could face four ruthless train robbers and come out unscathed.

  “Oh, sure.” He shrugged. “Not bad though.”

  “Who?” Her voice quavered. Mrs. Bossidy looked at her sharply. Laura said back in her chair, affecting unconcern.

  “One of the robbers. Big brute of a fella, almost as big as Hiram, here. Went down just about as hard, wailing like a girl.” He chuckled. “Shot him in the shoulder, he did, even though the guy was movin’. Then nodded like he’d aimed there all along.”

  “Is that hard?”

  “Hard? ’Bout as hard as pluggin’ a quail on the fly with a pistol. Didn’t anybody ever teach you to aim for the body?” He thumped himself on the chest. “Bigger target.”

  “No, I can’t say anybody ever taught me that.” Or anything else about guns beyond the fact of their existence.

  “Remedy that first thing tomorrow, if you want.”

  “You most certainly will not!” Mrs. Bossidy had a grip on her purse like she was ready to swing for his head if he dared to try such a thing.

  “Yeah, I suppose not.” He sighed in deep regret.

  “Spoilsport,” Hiram mouthed at her.

  Laura cleared her throat, trying to inject the proper note of casualness in her voice. “Did you find out who he is?”

  “He wasn’t the sort to volunteer a whole lot of information, if you know what I mean. And we were a tad busy.”

  “Oh.”

  “They’re gonna be handing all the captives off to the authorities at the next station. S’pose he’ll come back to pick these up, too.”

  “Do you think he’ll get off with the prisoners?”

  Mr. Hoxie shrugged; the fun was over and he wasn’t much interested in what came next. “Don’t know.”

  “You’re awfully interested in that man,” Mrs. Bossidy commented.

  “Oh, no,” Laura hedged. “I just…it would be only polite to thank him. Perhaps offer him a reward.”

  “I see.”

  “You always taught me one can never be too polite. Something you’ve demonstrated for me so wisely all these years.”

  Hiram choked.

  “Did I? Perhaps I overemphasized the importance of that convention.”

  “Oh, no,” Laura assured her. “I am certain that it would be unforgivably rude if we did not thank him properly for saving our lives.”

  “And what, exactly, would you consider the appropriate ‘thank-you’ for saving your life?”

  “I—” There w
as obviously a wrong answer, Laura decided. Mrs. Bossidy watched her with all the suspicion of a headmistress who knew her girls were plotting escape. “My heartfelt appreciation?” she ventured.

  Mrs. Bossidy shook her head. “Where you and that man are concerned, there will be no heartfelt anything.”

  Chapter 3

  Once they left the station in Papillon, Laura had allowed Mrs. Bossidy to nudge her back to their private car. It was perfectly obvious he wasn’t coming back, anyway, and at least in her own car she could stop constantly glancing at the door, drawing her companion’s sharp attention.

  Looking back on it now, she didn’t know why she had been so certain he’d come back. She only knew she’d wanted him to. But it was not as if she was accustomed always to getting everything she wanted. Her parents had certainly tried, showering her with toys and dolls and pretty new dresses, but they hadn’t been able to give her the two things she had really wanted: health, and freedom. Only time and patience had given her those.

  Laura had from the first wanted to plan out as little of the trip as possible. She intended to follow her interests and instincts. The painting would be better for it. They had spent two days longer in Omaha than they’d planned, allowing her to wait for one brilliantly sunny day to capture the light on the Missouri River and the broad, shimmering expanse of the mudflats north of town. It took them the better part of a week to reach Kearney; they’d pulled off at Columbus so Laura could capture the meeting of the Platte and the Loup River, and again at a small side spur line on the great, empty stretch before Grand Island, an endless sweep of nothingness like nothing she’d ever seen.

  And so she’d considered chugging right through Kearney. In those endless months that she’d waited for the cars to be completed, Laura had pored over the available photographs and paintings of the entire length of the railway. Her concept for the panorama was to record the changes that the railway had wrought in the years since the Union Pacific and the Central Pacific had met: new towns, reformed cities, civilization in the wilderness, as well as to highlight the wild and magnificent scenery that was at last accessible to thousands from the comfortable vantage point of a train.