Читать книгу Mail-Order Groom - Lisa Plumley - Страница 8

June 1884

Northern Arizona Territory

“For a fella who always gets his man, you sure are spending a lot of time moonin’ over that woman of yours.”

At the sound of his longtime partner’s voice, Adam Corwin jerked his gaze from the blurry photograph he’d been studying.

“She’s not mine.” Stone-faced, he shoved the photograph in his coat pocket, next to his heart. “She’s bait. Nothing more.”

“She’s the gold nugget in this ol’ mining scheme, that’s for sure.” Mariana Sayles crawled to match his position on the ridge, dirtying her skirts with an aplomb unmatched by any detective—female or otherwise. “But there’s no sense looking at her night and day. It’s Bedell we’re supposed to pin, remember?”

“I wish I could forget.” Adam reached for his rucksack. Without taking his gaze from his target, he pushed aside his maps and jerky, then withdrew his spyglass. He aimed the instrument at the campsite he and Mariana had identified after days of tracking. He frowned. “Still no sign of movement.”

“From you or the mark?”

“Funny.” His self-discipline might be legendary, but Adam didn’t like to be reminded of it. “You should join up with one of those traveling circuses. Pay’s probably better.”

“And give up all this?” Mariana gestured at the scrub oak, fallen pinecones, and overall desolation surrounding them at the edge of the mountainside. “Now you’re talkin’ crazy, Corwin.”

“Days of waiting will do that to a man.”

“So will days without a bath. I itch something fierce.”

“Nobody said detective work would be pretty.”

“Nobody said you’d be so handsome, but I put up with it.”

Mariana gave him a teasing smile—the same smile that helped her charm outlaws and clients with equal ease—but Adam didn’t reply. Intent on catching sight of the confidence man they’d tracked across three states and two territories, he scanned the blackened fire pit, the four horses, the empty bottles of mescal, and the trio of canvas military-issue tents—doubtless recently stolen—in the valley below him.

Although the sun had just come up, wisps of smoke still issued from the charred logs—evidence of how late the fire had burned. The bony horses—most likely as pilfered as the tents were—shifted at their iron posts. Otherwise all was silent.

Frustratingly silent.

If Bedell didn’t catch up with his four no-good brothers soon, Adam would know that he and Mariana had struck the wrong path. It wouldn’t be the first time Bedell had slipped away from them. The man was ruthless, whip-smart and as elusive as a warm bed to the man who’d been trailing him.

“You want me to end all this real quick?” Mariana asked. “I could put on a clean dress, go shake my bustle a little, see if those boys want to come in peaceful for a change.”

Adam quirked his mouth. “The day Roy Bedell or his brothers do anything peacefully is the day I sprout wings.” He flattened his belly against the gravelly ground. “You stay here.”

“Why, Mr. Corwin! Are you still trying to protect me?”

“Keep your voice down, too.”

“Always the chivalrous one, even after all these years. They warned me about you at the agency, but would I listen?” Her tone as playful as ever, Mariana nudged him. “How do you know I merit defending anyhow? Some people ain’t worth saving.”

“Some people are bound and determined to give up our position.” Frowning, Adam tucked away his spyglass. He crawled back from the ridge’s edge, then straightened. Deftly he shouldered his rucksack. It contained everything he owned, save his horse and saddle. He couldn’t recall the last night he’d spent without it tucked beneath his head. “Saddle up. Let’s go.”

“Already?” Mariana glanced over her shoulder. “I was just getting comfortable. You’re a right spoilsport sometimes.”

“Bedell might’ve changed his plans. He might’ve decided to meet his mark without his brothers around to complicate things.” Adam had hoped to nab the man before it came to that—before the woman Bedell had targeted became even more involved. But just in case …

“We should head to her telegraph station.”

“Got a special message for your secret lady friend? Hmm?”

“I want to make sure he’s not already there.”

Mariana sighed. “I wish Bedell would get off these phony marriage schemes. Makes me feel sorry for the ladies. Don’t they know no better than to believe a man who promises the moon?”

“Mostly, no.” All the same, Adam wished the woman in his photograph had. “Bedell’s been specially clever about this one, though. Six months laying groundwork, romancing all pretty-like over the wires, sending all those letters—that probably adds up to a compelling case for marriage in most women’s minds.”

“Humph. You’ll never catch me being such a saphead.”

“Good thing.” Safely out of sight of the camp now, Adam tied his rucksack beside his bedroll and saddlebags. He steadied his horse, then swung up in the saddle. “I’d hate to break in a new partner just because you got all swoony over a man.”

“Ha! Not while there’s breath in my body.” Mariana mounted adeptly, her chestnut mare snorting. “Unlike some women, I know how to keep my head. Imagine writing down all that claptrap—”

“She didn’t think the likes of us would be reading it.”

Uncomfortably Adam considered the packet of filched letters in his rucksack. Like all the other missives written by Bedell’s lady loves, they started out cautious … then gradually turned more revealing. Intercepting them hadn’t been his favorite piece of detective work, but it had been necessary. So had Mariana’s part of the job—making copies of the letters in her ladylike handwriting and sending the duplicates to Bedell.

“All I can say is, your lady friend must be sitting on one whale of a cash pile for Bedell to come all this way west.”

Adam frowned. “You’re forgetting Kansas City.”

Instantly his partner sobered. She scanned the ridgeline, her freckled face pensive. “Say … how ‘bout we split up? I’ll keep watch over the campsite and signal you if Bedell shows—” “

We already talked about this—”

“—and I’ll come after you lickety-split if one of his boys takes up in your direction. They’re already days late for their meetin’, and I’m thinking something’s not right. Bedell’s done busted up all their plans. I think maybe it’s a trap.”

“No.” Shaking his head, Adam fisted his pommel. Beneath him, his horse shifted eagerly. “If something happens to you—”

“Don’t worry.” Grinning, Mariana patted the pistol at her hip. When they weren’t in town, she didn’t bother with trick holsters or short-barreled derringers, preferring to strap an ordinary gun belt over her calico skirts. “I can take care of myself.”

Grudgingly Adam studied her. He had the utmost respect for Mariana’s detective abilities. With a rough mouth and a plucky demeanor, she’d made her way in a man’s world—but was still soft enough to spoil their horses with extra oats. As much as he wanted to shield her, it wasn’t his place to hold her back.

“You remember where the station is? Across the valley—”

“And up the mountainside near Morrow Creek. I remember.”

At her beleaguered tone, Adam couldn’t help grinning. Of all the reasons he liked having Mariana as his partner, her grit stood chief among them—even if it did collide with his own stubbornness from time to time. Mariana was brash, outspoken, and unstoppable. She was the closest he came to family.

She glanced at him. “Oh, no. Don’t you give me that grim face of yours, neither. You look as somber as an overworked undertaker.” She waved at him. “Git on now. Shoo. I’ll be fine.”

“You make sure of that.” Gruffly Adam cleared his throat. “Let’s bring down that double-crossing cuss once and for all.”

He touched his hat brim. Mariana offered him an answering salute. Without further sentimentality, he rode away at a clip, leaving his partner a defiant dot on the ridgeline behind him.

Splitting up didn’t sit well with him. Despite that, Adam knew it was the smartest thing to do. Every instinct told him Bedell was ahead of him on the trail—not behind, like Mariana thought. She might be a fast and fearless draw, but he wanted her out of the way when the inevitable showdown came.

The moment he met Roy Bedell face-to-face, Adam knew, one of them was going down—and he was deadly determined it would not be him.

For the fifth time in as many days, Savannah Reed stood on the platform at the Morrow Creek train depot, biting her lip while she stared east. Right on time, the 10:12 train appeared on the horizon, trailing sparks as it chugged nearer.

Jet-black smoke poured from its stacks, smudging the clear and sunny Arizona Territory sky. The sound of the train’s wheels grew louder, seeming to grind out the words he’s almost here, he’s almost here in a rhythm to match her heartbeat.

Around her, expectant travelers surged forward, tickets in hand. The portly man to her left bade his wife goodbye, leaving the poor woman sniffling into her handkerchief. A curly-haired youth Savannah recognized from the mercantile ignored the train’s arrival, preferring to blush and stammer beneath the attention of a young lady who’d stopped to ask him the time.

Some of these people were setting off on new adventures—most outfitted far more elaborately than Savannah had been on her own journey westward months ago. Others were here to meet someone on the 10:12. None of them had been present on the platform every day for nearly a week. None, that is, except her.

From the depot window, the ruddy-faced station telegraph clerk caught her eye. He crossed his fingers, then held them up to her. He’d been here every morning during her vigil, too.

Most likely, he wondered why she kept returning. Or maybe he’d guessed the reason and now felt sorry for her. Savannah didn’t know which. With her belly in knots and perspiration dampening her best dress, she couldn’t bring herself to contemplate the matter much further, either. All that counted now was that train—currently squealing to a stop in a cloud of smoke and cinders—and the people about to disembark from it. After all, it wasn’t every day that a woman waited to meet her husband-to-be. Especially for the first time ever.

The porter stepped out, setting his movable wooden steps in place and making way for the passengers. Eagerly Savannah raised herself on tiptoes to see. As usual, most of the passengers surged out in small groups, then headed for one of the nearby hotels for a hurried meal. Only a few travelers carried full baggage. Those were the ones who meant to stay.

Her fiancé would be one of them.

Holding her breath, Savannah examined each male passenger in turn. One sported enormously fashionable whiskers. Another held the hand of a shy-looking lady. A third moved with the aid of a cane, his chest thrust outward with an old soldier’s pride.

Feeling suddenly uncertain, she sneaked a glance at the written description—unfortunately rain-splattered, thanks to one of her earlier vigils—that she’d carried with her for weeks. A familiar sense of disappointment struck her. He was not here.

None of these men bore the homespun features, sensible suit, and tentative smile described in the letter she held. None of them was the earnest Baltimore telegraph operator with whom she’d struck up a long-distance friendship so many months ago.

Giddy with the freedom and intimacy of the wires, she and her soon-to-be husband had shared their hopes and dreams … and, eventually, a promise to meet here in Morrow Creek. But their rendezvous date had come and gone five times now. Even a neophyte romantic like Savannah had the sense to realize something had gone wrong.

Well, she’d simply head back to her station and man the wires, Savannah decided as she squared her shoulders. It was possible her fiancé had already sent her an explanation for his tardiness. Her helper, Mose, might be receiving her fiancé’s romantic, apology-filled message at the station even now.

At the notion, Savannah felt somewhat cheered. She breathed in deeply, then took a final look at the train—just in case, for she was nothing if not meticulous. When her pen pal did not miraculously alight from the car, she turned away … only to find the station clerk’s sympathetic gaze pinned on her.

“Too bad,” he said kindly. “Disappointed again?”

Mutely Savannah stared at him. For the first time it occurred to her how foolish she’d been. She never should have allowed her hopes to draw her into town day after day.

“I’m sorry,” the clerk said. “If you’re looking for someone particular on the 10:12, maybe I can help you, Miss …?”

Reed. Savannah Reed. He wanted to know her name, she knew, but Savannah had all the reasons in the world not to share it.

At least not until she could change it in marriage.

Thanks to her position at the isolated telegraph station—where few people had cause to visit, much less to wonder about its new operator—Savannah had kept her identity a secret in Morrow Creek … at least so far. She wanted to keep it that way.

Reed was a common enough name, she reminded herself. For now, its ordinariness would likely protect her. Especially in the absence of any other potentially damning information.

“I’m Joseph Abernathy.” He gave her a smile—a speculative, curious-looking smile. “I don’t think we’ve met. Why don’t you come on over? Maybe I can help track down your tardy traveler.”

“Thank you, but I—I’m in a terrible rush.” Why had she let herself be drawn in this way? The station clerk seemed friendly, but word traveled fast in a small Western town like Morrow Creek. The more people she spoke with, the more difficult it would be to keep her secret. “I’m sorry. Please excuse me!”

Wearing her most harried expression, Savannah bustled away. She heard Joseph Abernathy calling after her, but she didn’t dare stop. She wasn’t ready to befriend anyone. Not yet.

Her high-buttoned shoes clopped across the platform as she pushed her way between the few lingering travelers. Once she’d reached a safe distance from Mr. Abernathy, Savannah relaxed. She allowed the anxious look to leave her face. Methodically she let her shoulders fall in their usual position. She eased her steps to a normal pace, then permitted her breathing to slow.

Almost home free. If she were smart, she’d still hurry, despite being clear of Mr. Abernathy’s inquisitive gaze. Mose was not as skilled at recognizing the various telegraph operators’ signatures as she was. Her beau’s distinctive manner of tapping out a message might go by unnoticed if she weren’t there to hear it. Raising her skirts, Savannah headed for the street.

She almost tripped over the little girl in her path.

“Oh, pardon me!” Savannah said. “I’m so sorry.”

The child gaped up. She stood alone, her blond hair in pigtails and her face wet with tears. She clutched a satchel.

“Have you seen my mama? She was right there—” she pointed with a shaky, chubby finger “—but now she’s gone.”

“I—no, I’m sorry.” Feeling rushed, Savannah cast a hasty glance around the platform. She saw no likely looking adults nearby. Knowing it was probably unwise to call further attention to herself, she nonetheless crouched beside the girl. She offered an encouraging smile. “Perhaps you could describe her to me?”

A sniffle. “Well …” The girl sucked in a breath and attempted a description. Her halting words were interrupted by choking sobs and another mighty sniffle. “M-M-Mama is—”

“All right.” Frowning in commiseration, Savannah raised her hand toward the child’s face. She flipped her wrist—a move borne of long practice—then brightly withdrew a handkerchief. “Use this, then try again.”

The little girl’s sobs abruptly stopped. Wide-eyed, she pointed. “You pulled that out of my ear!“

Savannah shrugged. “I thought you could use it.”

“Do it again! Do it again!”

Savannah smiled. When she’d been a girl, she’d been amazed by that trick, too. “Maybe after we find your mother. Let’s—”

“Wait, there she is! And Papa, too!” the girl shouted.

She raced across the platform at full tilt, then threw her arms around a relieved-looking woman carrying a lace-edged parasol. Beside the woman, a gentleman in a fine suit smiled at his daughter. He lowered his hand to caress her pigtails.

At the gesture, Savannah nearly sighed. She wished her mail-order groom were as dashing and caring as that little girl’s father. Her fiancé was on the decidedly plain side—at least if his modest descriptions of himself were to be believed—and his avowed affection for tinned beans was hardly awe-inspiring. But he was solid and good, Savannah reminded herself sternly. She didn’t care what his outsides looked like, as long as his insides came outfitted with a loving heart.

And as long as he arrived soon.

It wasn’t as though she were marrying for love. Not yet, at least. She could afford to skimp on a few of the luxuries.

“. and that lady helped me! She can do magic tricks!”

At the sound of the girl’s voice, Savannah brightened. She smiled at the reunited family … only to be greeted by frowns.

They could see. They’d guessed the truth about her.

Savannah’s alarm was immediate and unthinking. She stared down at herself, trying to figure out the problem. Was her dress too bright, too new, too showy? Was her manner too forward?

Before she could reason out the trouble, the girl’s father disentangled himself from his daughter’s grasp. He strode toward Savannah. For one cowardly moment, she considered running away.

But then she lifted her chin instead.

She hadn’t come all the way west just to be frightened off by a good-looking man with an expensive hat and an authoritative demeanor. Even if he did remind her of Warren, that dastardly—

“Miss, thank you for watching over my daughter.”

He pressed something in her gloved palm. Reflexively Savannah tried to give it back, but the man wouldn’t allow her to. With a warmhearted smile, he closed her fingers around the object. He tipped his hat, then rejoined his happy family.

For a moment, Savannah could only watch them as they walked away from the platform together. In the warm glow of the summer sunshine, they seemed to embody everything she’d ever wanted—a family, a sense of belonging … a reason to smile that felt true.

Well, soon enough she’d have all that.

She’d have all that and more, Savannah assured herself. If only she stayed faithful to her plan, she could achieve every dream she’d ever had, right here in a sun-splashed territory where no one knew her family or her past—and no one ever would.

Determinedly she shifted her gaze. She uncurled her fingers. In the center of her palm, a silver coin winked up.

Hmm. Evidently she’d erred too far on the dowdy side.

That was interesting. She’d tried to appear a simple Morrow Creek woman … and had only succeeded in appearing impoverished.

Before she returned to town, she’d have to remedy that. It was fortunate her costume trunk was deep—and had survived the trip from New York City mostly unharmed, thanks to Mose’s help.

Drawing up her skirts, Savannah aimed one final glance at the disappointing train, then headed in the direction of the mountainside. If she were lucky, when she arrived home a telegraph message would already be waiting for her.

A quarter mile from the Morrow Creek adjunct telegraph station, Adam dismounted. With all his senses alert, he staked his horse near a patch of fresh grass, then gave the gelding a pat on the neck. “Behave yourself. I won’t be gone long.”

The beast nickered. Damnation. He’d done it again.

Talking to the horses was Mariana’s province. Feeling beyond foolish, Adam ducked his head, then headed out on foot with only his rucksack for company.Riding straight up to the station was a risk he couldn’t take. It was possible Bedell was already there, ensconced in his new “home” with yet another woman who fancied herself fortunate in love at last.

As far as Adam was concerned, the confidence man deserved a special place in hell for taking advantage of lonely women. He deserved much worse than that for what he’d done in Kansas City.

A few minutes’ hike brought Adam within sight and earshot of the station. Stealthily he circled its boundaries. He’d scouted the place days earlier with Mariana, learning the lay of the land and the locations likeliest for an ambush. Today, everything appeared unchanged. All the same, Adam felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Frowning, he kept on moving.

Birds chirped, unconcerned by Adam’s arrival. A squirrel stopped, stared at him, then dashed up a tree. A few yards away, the station hunkered on sloped ground, surrounded by ponderosa pines and the occasional scrub oak; the mountain loomed behind it. Gaining a foothold amid the fallen pinecones and crunchy dried needles was tricky; so was imagining a woman lonesome enough to accept an offer of marriage from a hard-nosed killer.

Not that any of them knew that’s what Roy Bedell was, Adam reminded himself as he crouched to survey the shingled log cabin station and its peeled-log porch. All of Bedell’s “brides” had considered Bedell a kindred spirit—at least until he cleaned out their prized belongings, absconded with their savings and broke their hearts. Adam wanted a better fate for the woman in the photograph, but Mariana was right—something was off-kilter here.

Muscles tightening, Adam withdrew his spyglass. He aimed it toward the station’s twin windows. Several minutes’ patient watching rewarded him with a view of Mose Hawthorne, the man who hauled firewood, repaired equipment and sometimes manned the telegraph. He arrived every day on a sporadic schedule and spent his nights in a cabin closer to the town of Morrow Creek.

Most people did. Those who came out west wanted to be near a town site, where they could find friends and necessities and convivial conversation. Adam didn’t know why the station’s proprietress had accepted her isolated assignment. The detective in him reasoned that she probably had something to hide. The man in him hoped she liked to be alone … the same way he did.

But that was outlandish. It didn’t matter whether he felt a kinship with the woman—whether he thought he understood her. She was a mark. He’d vowed to protect her. Nothing else mattered.

A thorough check revealed that she wasn’t at the station. Adam searched harder. He’d glimpsed her once, but only from a distance. Now, as odd as it sounded, he wanted more … and was denied. As though sharing Adam’s disappointment, the place’s big calico cat slunk into view, stared at him through baleful eyes, then vanished. A rhythmic tapping issued from inside the cabin.

Silence fell. Mose Hawthorne moved from the desk to the cast-iron stove, fiddling with something. A few minutes later, the scent of coffee filled the air. Lulled by the peaceful tableau, Adam released a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding.

Everything was fine. She was fine. Bedell wasn’t here.

Adam tucked away his spyglass. He slung his rucksack over his shoulder, then turned. At the same instant, something came at him. Something big. Something long and rough. A tree branch.

In confusion, Adam ducked too late. The branch walloped him on the side of the head. He went down with an involuntary grunt.

The damp tang of moss and dirt filled his nostrils. Again the branch came down. It whacked the ground, collapsing his fallen hat like a squash under a cleaver. Adam shoved. His palms skidded on twigs and leaves. He forced himself upright again.

The branch caught him in the side. His breath left him.

“For the last time, stay out of my business.”

Bedell. Even woozy and gasping, Adam recognized that pitiless voice. It had haunted his dreams for well over a year.

Mariana. If Bedell or his brothers had gotten to her first, she wouldn’t have survived. Roughly, Adam sighted Bedell. He honed in on his bland face with its underachieving whiskers. His fist followed his gaze. With a surprised shout, Bedell fell.

Adam seized the man’s coat and hauled him upward. Without his customary hat, Bedell looked young. Too young.

Disoriented by Bedell’s baby-faced appearance, Adam hesitated. It didn’t feel right to hit a skinny, callow youth.

“Ah.” Unmistakable cunning filled Bedell’s voice, erasing all impressions of innocence. He sighted something over his shoulder, then nodded at it. “You do have a weakness.”

Reflexively Adam twisted to look at whatever Bedell had seen. He drew his firearm, then turned back to Bedell. He fired.

At the same time, another shot rang out.

The birds fled the trees. Both men fell.

Savannah nearly walked right past the curiously squashed-up flat-brimmed hat lying on the ground outside her station.

She was so intent on retrieving her repentant fiancé’s telegraph message that she glanced at the hat, did not think much of it and kept on striding toward home. Her encounter with the family at the depot platform had reinforced the dreams that had driven her west, and Savannah knew she wouldn’t accomplish those dreams by dawdling. Besides, her nose fairly twitched with the seductive fragrance of coffee brewing. She wanted to get home, grab a restorative cup and check the wires with Mose.

Then she glimpsed a man’s fallen body. He lay with one arm out flung, his face hidden. His knees gouged the dirt as though he’d been dropped cold while crawling toward her station. He looked like one of the lifeless “prizes” that her calico mouser, Esmeralda, sometimes left on the station’s front porch.

Chilled by the realization, Savannah sank to the ground beside him. Too late, she saw that the leaves nearby were speckled with blood. Now so were her hands and her dress.

This could only be one man. One man—late but determined.

“Mose!” Savannah yelled. “Come quick!”

Her husband-to-be had arrived at last and if he died before she could marry him, they were both in big trouble.