Smolder on a Slow Burn

by Lynda J. Cox

  “No.” She cut him off and shook her head. “I’m not implying that you fall into that category. I am a teacher, Mr. Adams. My students were black children. Children of parents who were so poor most of them couldn’t even afford a slate board for their children to practice their letters, so poor most of those children didn’t even have a single pair of shoes, so poor those children only had one dress or shirt and pair of pants.” Allison’s voice broke as the unbidden image of Darci in her faded yellow pinafore reared up in her memory.

  “But they were so very proud of what their children were doing. Their children were learning to read and write and cipher, things they had been denied the opportunity to do. Some of those children went home in the evenings and taught their parents what they had learned that day.” She lifted her head, levelly meeting A.J.’s gaze. “And because there are men who still believe a white man is better than a man of any other color, two of my students were killed—one of them a little girl only eight years old—and my school was burned to the ground.”

  “So, you’re afraid those men are going to come after you for teaching black children to read and write and cipher.” As with Allison’s statement earlier, this wasn’t a question.

  “I know they were. They did.” She couldn’t stop the shudder racing over her.

  Six men, all mounted on sweating horses and carrying large, flaming crosses had lined up in the front yard of the home she shared with Alice and Scott. She told A.J. how those men had shouted for her to come out to face them. And the dreadful allegation. “We want to talk to you about what you’ve been allowing that boy to do with you,” one of those men had said.

  Alice had stood beside her in the small parlor, Scott held protectively within the circle of her arms. Her sister recognized the leader of these men, warned her how dangerous he was because Allison had called him a liar to his face.

  A.J.’s shoulders tightened and those cobalt eyes narrowed. “What happened?”

  She shook her head, unable to force the words out. Her throat felt so constricted breathing was difficult. Alice’s voice—mild, soft-spoken and agreeable Alice—full of a steely determination Allison never thought to hear from her sister, echoed in her head. “Go, Allison. I’ll keep them occupied for as long as I can. Go and hide. Hurry.”

  Allison screwed her eyes shut, trying to silence that voice. She should have never left her sister and nephew. They were dead because of her. Because of her, four men were falsely arrested and most likely already dead.

  Her eyes flew open in startled shock when A.J. slipped one arm around her shoulders, the other around her waist and gently pulled her against his chest. He ran a slow hand down her back. For just a moment, Allison held herself stiff in his embrace. Yet the safety and security offered within the protective circle of his arms was too much to resist. She let herself slump against the width of his chest and dropped her head onto his shoulder. The overcoat smelled of horse, leather, hay, and talcum, something she wasn’t fully expecting. Yet, those scents reminded her of her father’s own overcoat and they were oddly comforting.

  “What happened, Allison?”

  Unbidden the tears started flowing. “The night I left Georgia, my sister’s house was burned to the ground and I saw a newspaper a few days later that said she and my nephew were dead. The man I think is responsible for murdering them told me the very day before this happened that it would be a shame if they met the same end as my two students.”

  His arms tightened around her and his posture stiffened.

  “And, then in Omaha I saw one of the men who I think killed those children and burned the school. I think he’s on the train with us.” Just saying those words, Allison realized the improbability of anyone from Georgia finding her in Omaha and being on the very same train, but to her relief A.J. didn’t dispute her statement.

  “So, that’s why you prefer to stay here with a total stranger, despite the damage it may do to your reputation.”

  Allison nodded. “What use is a good reputation if I’m not alive to benefit from it?”

  His deep chuckle vibrated in his chest. “That’s a pragmatic manner of looking at things. The next stop we’re going to ascertain if this man truly is on the train. And, if he is, we’ll figure something out.”

  Allison levered back from him. “We, Mr. Adams?”

  “Yes, we, Allison. And, as it appears I’ve thrown my lot in with you perhaps we should be using first names, although I prefer ‘A.J.’” A flash of white, slightly uneven teeth in a conspiratorial smile rocked Allison to the core.

  “If A.J. isn’t your first name, what is?” She struggled to put sense to this sudden, decidedly protective attitude from him.

  “Adrean. My full name is Adrean James Adams, Junior. I was named for my father. He was Adrean, so I was Adrean Junior and that was later shortened to A.J.” He quickly moved to the bench seat opposite her. He ran his hands through his hair again. Because she was facing him this time and, for the first time since she had met him he wasn’t wearing that battered cavalry hat, she noticed that the silvering at his temples wasn’t even. The silver among the black at his right temple traced nearly to the back of his head about two inches above his ear and followed a direct line with the thin scar along the slope of his cheek bone.

  “May I ask what caused that scar? A deflected saber blow?”

  He shook his head and plopped his hat on, tugging it into place. “Nothing so romantic. It was a rifle butt to the side of my head. As I recall, I said something the other man didn’t appreciate.”

  Allison felt her stomach turn. “Why?”

  “Why? Why was what I said unappreciated—?”

  “Why were you struck in the head with a rifle butt?”

  “Because even though I could say something that man didn’t appreciate, he still had the authority and the power to knock me senseless.” He lifted a shoulder in a negligent shrug. “Train’s slowing, which means the porter will be here shortly to let us know which town we’re coming to. Let’s not damage your reputation beyond repair, shall we?”

  Allison wiped the tears from her face, aiming for some semblance of normalcy when the porter arrived. “Even if I’m mistaken, I want to thank you for not doubting me, Mr…A.J.”

  He quirked a brow even as he stretched his legs out, crossing one ankle over the other. “I learned a long time ago that a woman’s intuition is often the best source of information available. A lot of men are complete fools for not giving it more credence.”

  Allison glanced at the revolver tied down low on his thigh, visible where his greatcoat had slipped open. She lifted her face to his. “I don’t think many people would dare accuse you of being a fool.”

  “You’d be surprised how often I have been accused of that.” He leaned back, another smile tracing new lines across his features. “And I do believe, Allison Webster, you’re flirting with me.”

  Heat seared her cheeks, but she managed to keep her gaze steady on his face. “I suppose I am.”

  Chapter Four

  It takes as much time and trouble to pull down a falsehood as to build up a truth.

  ~Peter Latham

  “Stay close to the train. I’ll go see if there is anything near the station in the way of food.”

  She didn’t have the heart to tell him that she wasn’t hungry. The very real possibility of being followed by one of Oakten’s men had stolen her sense of hunger, replacing it with painful knots in her stomach. “And, if I see him, what do I do?” Now that A.J. was taking her fears seriously, she couldn’t tell herself any longer that she was just being foolish. She couldn’t keep the quaver from her voice.

  A.J. leaned in closer to her, his smile feral and predatory. Ice glittered in his eyes. “Don’t let him see you.”

  “That is not amusing.” Allison glanced from side to side, noting each person who left the train and made their way into the station. She locked onto every man, debating if he was the one.

  “I didn’t intend for it to be. You�
��re a smart woman. Try not to be seen. It’s really that simple.” A.J. straightened, adjusted his hat and glanced along the boardwalk. “Brownson appears fairly large, so there should be a restaurant or something very close by where I can get us a quick meal. Just stay near the train.”

  She watched him walk away, saddlebags draped over his shoulder. Even in the faded, patched at the elbows greatcoat, with his height and broad shoulders, he cut an imposing figure. For a moment, she tried to imagine him at the start of the war, in a coat of smoky Richmond gray, the gold braid gleaming, hat new and rakishly planted on his head and sky blue wool riding trousers with the stripe of canary yellow on the outside seam and pleated so sharp they could cut paper, riding off to defend the Confederate States of America while a band played a jaunty version of Dixie.

  It wasn’t that hard to do. He still wore that coat as if it were cut of the finest wool and that hat as if it still bore the starch of newly constructed felt. She wouldn’t be surprised to learn his hat once sported a fashionable black plume of a dyed ostrich feather, even if that feather was non-regulation.

  Passengers came and went from the station, many returning with what Allison could only assume to be food wrapped in brown paper and tied with a piece of twine. She realized her stomach was rumbling, although she still did not really think she was hungry. But it had been several hours since she had last eaten.

  She walked slowly toward the caboose, calculating how long A.J. had been gone. After reaching the end of the train, she turned around and made her way past the two box cars. Just before she reached the last passenger car, she halted. Climbing into the first car was a familiar lean and lanky figure.

  It was Nathan Garrison. Gene Oakten’s right hand man. She would know him anywhere and he was on the same train.

  Allison stepped back between the box car and the passenger car, hoping she hadn’t been seen. She backed into the coupler for the cars and froze when a hand clamped over her mouth and a strong arm snaked around her waist.

  “Don’t scream,” A.J. hissed in her ear, even as he lifted her over the coupling and pulled her backwards, to the side of the train not visible in the station.

  Allison shook her head and he dropped his hand from her mouth. Still with a firm grip around her waist, he continued to pull her to the boxcar.

  “Get in the car,” he said, lifting her up. Once inside, he caught her arm at the elbow and guided her deeper into the shadows. “Did you see the man you think has been following you since Omaha?”

  “Yes. And I know who it is. It’s Nathan Garrison. He works for the man who owns Colton County.”

  “Nathan Garrison?” Something darkened exponentially in A.J.’s eyes. “We’ve got to get you out of here and then you have some explaining to do.”

  “I have explaining to do?” Allison stared up at him. Had he taken leave of his senses? “I’m not the one waylaying people and dragging them into boxcars. Why the sudden cloak and dagger routine?”

  A.J. turned from her and quickly tacked the quiet gray cross-tied in the car. He tied the saddle bags on the back of the saddle and rechecked the girth, then dropped the crossties from the horse’s halter and slipped the bridle over the animal’s head. “We’re leaving, Miss Webster.”

  Miss Webster?

  “Can you ride?” he demanded before she could puzzle out his sudden formality.

  “Not very well.” Allison left the shadows. “What is going on?”

  “Stay out of sight, for God’s sake.” He grabbed a long rope and fashioned a bridle for the second horse in the box car. “I’ll put you up on Dan. He’s fairly level headed and the only saddle is on him. I’ll take Sugar.”

  “We’re stealing horses?” Allison slipped back into the darker corner. “They hang people out here for stealing horses. We can’t do that.”

  “It’s not stealing if you own them. How do you think I know their names?” A.J. pulled both animals closer to the open door on the opposite side of the car, out of sight of the station. He tossed the reins over the gray’s neck and motioned for Allison to get on the horse’s back.

  She’d seen many people get on a horse. It couldn’t be that hard, could it? She grabbed the front of the saddle and tried to pull herself up. Something like a snort sounded behind her and a moment later, A.J. grabbed her at the waist and lifted her onto the horse’s back.

  “I can’t ride astride. Look at how my skirt is bunched up and my legs are showing.” Allison tried to tug the fabric down. “It’s totally inappropriate.”

  “Put your feet in the stirrups and stand up. I’ll fix it as best as I can.”

  Allison did as ordered, feeling her face heat as A.J. tugged at her skirt. “Sit down and duck,” A.J. ordered. Before she had a chance to argue with him, he pulled both horses from the car and then hopped up onto the bay.

  Without warning, he gigged his mount into a lope, pulling the gray behind him. He led Allison into an alleyway near the station and turned to survey the route they’d taken.

  “My bag is on that train.” Allison looked back, debating if she should be angry, if she should start screaming for help, or if this man really knew what he was doing. She discarded being angry or screaming for help. She reserved judgment on whether or not leaving the train was the best option in the circumstance.

  “Right now, you don’t want to be on that train or near a town. Trust me on this.” He turned his horse from the station and led Allison further away. “As soon as I’ve got us far enough from here, we have to talk.”

  Allison couldn’t say a word or even reason through how far would be far enough in his estimate. She was too busy concentrating on staying in the saddle. The gray’s trot jarred every bone in her body.

  A.J. glanced over his shoulder at her. “Stop bouncing. Relax and let your body move with his rhythm.”

  That was easier said than done, Allison decided. He led her out of the small town, heading in what she believed to be a northerly direction. Every so often, he looked over his shoulder. When Brownson was little more than a small dot on the horizon, and the piercing whistle of the train was a faint call on the warm fall breeze, he finally turned to the west again.

  At long last, he brought the horses to a stop. Allison slumped forward in relief.

  “Get down. You need to walk or you’re going to be saddle sore.” He swung gracefully down from the bay.

  “Going to be” was long in the past. She was already sore and muscles she didn’t even know she had were aching. Surely he was being facetious. There was no way she was going to be able to make her burning muscles cooperate enough to walk. “Walk? I can’t even feel my lower legs.”

  “Get down.” The demand for compliance barked in his tone and she was reminded that this man had been an officer, in charge of other men and used to having his orders promptly obeyed without question.

  With a sigh, Allison managed to slide off the gray, only to land unceremoniously on her backside when her legs buckled under her. Tears of frustration, pain, and humiliation filled her eyes.

  A.J. bent down, caught her upper arm and pulled her to her feet. Allison flung his hand off and flopped back down to the ground. “I am not moving another inch until you tell me why we had to leave the train, as well as leave behind all my earthly possessions—what few they are—and what it is I have to explain.” She tilted her head up to him. “I don’t care if you leave me, either. I’m not moving until I have some answers, Mr. Adams.”

  He knelt in front of her, leaning an elbow onto his bent knee and took a moment to nudge his hat back. Allison defiantly met his hardened cobalt gaze. Finally, he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me you’re wanted for murder?”

  Murder? She had a hard time smashing spiders that found their way into the house. She was wanted for murder? “That isn’t true. I’ve never killed anyone.”

  “Well, there is a brand new wanted poster hanging up in the train station in Brownson with your likeness and name on it. There’s also a five hundred dollar reward for your r
eturn to Colton County. Someone wants you back in Georgia very badly, and I’m wondering if I’ve been duped by the oldest trick in the world.”

  Allison’s world tilted and her vision filled with huge black spots. She leaned forward, digging her fingers into the ground at her side, attempting to keep the landscape from spinning wildly around her. Who would accuse her of murder? And better yet, who was it she had supposedly murdered? Jack? Darci? No, in Colton County very few people would care that two black children were dead or even how they had died. Certainly not the sheriff, who had been bought and paid for by Gene Oakten and remained sheriff on Oakten’s authority. That left only Alice and Scott. Nausea flooded her. She fell to a side, retching and gagging.

  Allison wasn’t sure how long she lay on the hard ground, crippled with dry heaves, but she was aware of A.J. still kneeling next to her. She didn’t even have the strength to sit up. She looked up into his face, and a chill settled over her. His expression was hard and remorseless.

  “Let’s redeal the deck and see who comes up aces. Which alias do you prefer I use?” he asked. “Allison Webster or Alice Peterson? Or is Allison Webster just the name you use for your damsel in distress routine?”

  Everything took on a reddish haze in that moment. Allison shoved herself to her knees and turned on A.J.

  “You miserable, unmitigated bastard. Go to hell.” She climbed to her feet.

  “I’ve been there.” He levered himself to stand and Allison took a step away. “It is not an experience I would ever want to repeat.”

  “Alice Peterson is—was—she was my twin sister.” Allison slumped and swallowed the bile rising in her throat. “I didn’t kill anyone,” she repeated, fighting off the chill enveloping her. A.J. was right. Someone wanted her back in Colton County desperately. A five hundred dollar reward was an astronomical amount. She lifted her head and met his cool gaze. A new fear invaded and she could not swallow the sudden doubt. “You didn’t want me on that train because I was being followed and you don’t want to lose the reward. How do I know you aren’t working with Nathan Garrison? Or maybe you’re working alone and want to keep the whole reward for yourself.”