by Jodi Thomas
“Well, Mr. Church,” Felicity Ravenwood said. “I don’t know you. I thank you for your kindness in stepping forward to pay my fine, but it was unnecessary. I could have paid it myself, but there was a principle to honor. Since there is going to be no public trial, I am quite happy to reimburse you.” She raised one hand to show the beaded reticule dangling from her wrist. “In fact, it has always been my intention to pay the fines for all of my sisters here.”
Joe Pepper looked pained. “I told you, we’re all square with that. Besides, if you want to pay people back, it’s the menfolk you owe.”
“Yes, I know, but I want to give it to the ladies. Now, what was the individual fine?”
Joe’s attention was suddenly all for the toes of his boots. He muttered, “Five dollars.”
“I see. I must have sorely aggravated you and the judge. Good. It was all of a purpose, and, more often than not, success comes at a cost.” She opened the reticule and extracted a bundle of bills. She handed it to Mrs. Wilcox. “I would be pleased if you’d peel away five and then pass it along.”
Nat thought the judge’s wife had a smile on the sly, secretive side. He figured Miss Ravenwood’s largesse came as no surprise. It was clever, really. Husbands, brothers, fathers, and sons paid the fines. That was five fewer dollars they had to spend at Sweeny’s if they strayed in that direction, and five dollars for the women, who were hard-pressed to come by money outside of what their men gave them. There was a certain justice in their scheming that Nat could appreciate. He waited until the bills had circulated between the two cells and the remainder was returned to Miss Ravenwood before he spoke up.
“The door, Joe. The money’s been settled.”
The sheriff managed to turn the key this time. His attempt to open the door was thwarted when Felicity Ravenwood grabbed the bars in her slender, kid-gloved hands and held the door in place.
Watching from his vantage point in the doorway, Nat merely shook his head. Delicate hands aside, she was strong. He decided that desperation more than principles contributed to her strength. She did not want to leave the cell.
“Joe,” said Nat, “open the other door.”
“Good idea.” The sheriff went to the second cell, inserted the key, and twisted.
As Nat had anticipated, once Joe was otherwise occupied, Felicity Ravenwood eased open the door to her cell and gestured to her companions to leave quickly. There was a brief hesitation before they complied. It was clear they did not want to abandon her. Felicity squeezed their hands as they filed out.
Nat moved out of the doorway to let the women pass into the front office. Felicity managed to close her cell door before the second group of women marched by. In a show of solidarity, they brushed her curled fingertips as they passed. When Joe saw that Miss Ravenwood was still in her self-imposed prison, he started for the door.
Nat put out a hand, suggesting that he stop. “Make your peace with the ladies in your office, Joe. You still have to live in this town.”
“Don’t I know it.” He jerked his head in Felicity Ravenwood’s direction. “You’ll take care of her?”
“I will.” Nat regarded Miss Ravenwood. Her green eyes had narrowed, and her wide mouth was set with a certain menace. Clearly, she did not embrace the notion of being taken care of. “How about some coffee, Joe? Tea might suit better. Isn’t that right, Miss Ravenwood? Do you prefer tea? I find that tea introduces a level of civility that might otherwise be absent in conversation.”
Felicity Ravenwood stared at him. “Who are you?”
“You know that, ma’am. Nat Church. Joe Pepper here will vouch for me. So will half a dozen of your newly formed sisterhood, not the least of whom is Mary Wilcox.”
Sheriff Joe Pepper slipped behind Nat on his way out. “You brought this on yourself, Church,” he whispered. “God help you.” He shut the door behind him and Nat heard him greet the ladies still milling about his office. “Can I impose on one of you to make a pot of tea?”
• • •
FELICITY Ravenwood kept her hands curled around the iron bars. When Nat Church stepped closer to the door, she felt the urge to back away. She fought it and held her ground. In a show of force, this man could easily wrest the door away from her, drag her out by her hair if he had a mind to, and frog-march her back to where her private railcar was waiting on a side track at the station. Relief warred with suspicion when he stopped within half an arm’s-length distance and remained there, his hands resting relaxed and open at his sides.
He stood with his feet set slightly apart. His scarred leather duster hung loosely from his shoulders, but she had glimpsed his gun belt when he moved out of the doorway. She wondered about the gun holstered at his side. A Colt? A Remington? She did not know guns. Weapons were her father’s particular interest, not hers. Neither was she interested in a man who wore a gun as comfortably as he did his Boss of the Plains Stetson. She imagined he no longer felt the weight of it against his leg. Its absence would be more bothersome, like the tingling of a phantom limb. That troubled her. In her experience, a man was only easy with a gun if he knew how to use it with an economy of motion and a true aim.
She glanced down at his scuffed brown boots. A fine layer of dust covered them. She raised her eyes slowly and saw the same thin film of dust on his long coat and pearl gray hat. Was he weary? If he was, nothing of it showed on his face. Except for a narrow smile, his features were without expression. He had dark, hooded eyes, a Roman nose, and a squared-off jaw. A shadow suggested there might be a cleft in his chin, but she could not be certain. The coarse stubble along his jaw hid the evidence from her. His rough beard seemed to be the consequence of not taking time to shave, but what accounted for his haste?
Dread knotted her stomach. An uncomfortable pressure settled against her chest.
Felicity took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I hope you can appreciate that your name does not of its own accord inspire confidence. As for the sheriff or my sister companions endorsing you, it is not all that helpful. Truth be told, Mr. Church, I know them little better than I know you. I only arrived in Falls Hollow three days ago.”
“Imagine what you might have accomplished in four.”
Felicity’s full lips thinned slightly. “Do I amuse you?”
“After a fashion, yes.”
“How do you mean?”
Nat shrugged lightly. “Have you ever seen the way a cat plays with a mouse before he pounces?”
“Yes. It’s unpleasant.”
“I suppose that depends on your perspective. You amuse me like that.”
Felicity’s cheeks flushed pink.
Nat turned his head toward the door and called out, “How’s that tea coming, Joe?” When the sheriff called back that it was almost ready, Nat gave Felicity his full attention. “To my way of thinking, it can’t come too soon.”
“I’m not hopeful we can achieve civility,” said Felicity. “Not if you won’t answer my questions.”
“I thought I just did. You didn’t like my answer.”
This time the breath that Felicity drew was much shorter. She exhaled huffily. “Why are you here, Mr. Church?”
“Now, ma’am, that’s a different question. I’m here to spring you.”
“Spring me?”
“Pay your fine and get you out. I’ve accomplished exactly half of that. I suppose you have your reasons for wanting to stay where you are.”
“I do. One of them being I don’t go off with strangers.”
“You feel safer here?”
“Yes.”
“All right,” he said. “I’m going to see about that tea.”
Felicity watched him disappear into the sheriff’s office. There was nothing for her to do but wait. For obvious reasons, the jail did not have a rear door. She didn’t think fleeing was a solution to her problems anyway. Where would she go? Her Pullman car was hardly a sanctuary, not when that was where he wanted to take her. She would not be merely falling in with him. She would be lead
ing the way. It would take very little effort to find her if she returned to the hotel where she’d stayed before her night in jail. He might have even gone there first.
Felicity was musing over how Nat Church had found her when he came through the door carrying two tin cups. He passed one through the bars. She hesitated, expecting a trick. He held the cup steady and waited her out. At last she took it.
“I took the liberty of adding sugar,” he said. “I hope that’s to your liking.”
“It is,” she said. There was another hesitation, then, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He raised his cup, toasting her. “To civility, Miss Ravenwood. Drink up. I promise you, I won’t remain a stranger much longer.”
Felicity felt oddly calmed by that. It was the last thing she clearly remembered.
• • •
NAT Church looked up from cleaning his gun when he heard Felicity stirring. She was not awake yet, but he thought it would not be much longer. She had changed positions twice in the last ten minutes and was now lying curled on her side facing him. The bed at the rear of her private Pullman coach was not ten feet from where he was sitting. He had folded back the privacy screen so he could keep an eye on her. He wondered what she would consider the most egregious violation: That he had watched her sleep? Or that he had removed her hat?
He idly rubbed the ivory handle of his Colt Peacemaker while he watched for some faint movement beneath her eyelids. Not for the first time, it occurred to Nat that Sheriff Pepper had a gift for understating a truth. The card-stock image of Felicity Ravenwood that Nat still carried in his vest pocket did little justice to the woman he’d met in the Falls Hollow jail. Even sleeping, her features had more to recommend them than the sepia-toned photograph could suggest. Awake, she was vibrant. Sleeping, she merely glowed.
Nat’s lip curled slightly, mockingly. Had he ever thought a woman glowed? He wondered if he was waxing poetic. Waxing pathetic was more accurate, he decided. He set his Colt down on the table beside his gun belt. He drew the leather holster closer and began to oil it. The trouble was, keeping his hands busy didn’t necessarily occupy his mind, and his eyes followed the gist of his thoughts, straying at regular intervals in Felicity Ravenwood’s direction.
In sleep, there were none of the hard edges the camera had captured. Here her features were softly composed. Nat imagined she had not been an easy subject to photograph. He did not think that sitting still came naturally. Waiting while the photographer fiddled with lighting and lenses had probably been painful for her, and the camera caught her impatience. The effect was to make her look stern, almost harsh, but to Nat’s eye, even that could not mask her deep unhappiness. The lush, full line of her mouth was lost. Her chin jutted forward with no hint of the tilt that made her seem equal parts coquette and militant.
The hat she wore for her studio sitting was equal to the extraordinary creation he had removed from her head. He wondered if wearing it was a battle won or lost with the photographer. The feathers had created a slight shadow across the upper portion of her face that made her eyes appear deeply set and penetrating but without much suggestion of a sentient being behind them. In contrast to the extravagance of the hat, the face that stared out from beneath it seemed more plain than pretty, more dull than distinctive.
The photograph could not indicate that her dark eyes were a shade of green closer to emerald than jade, and the camera had failed to find their brilliance, but these oversights were failures of the invention and its mechanics, and Nat had been prepared to meet a woman who was something more than she appeared.
Her hair, though, was a revelation.
Until he removed the hat from her head, he could not have claimed with any certainty to know the color, length, or texture of her hair. Upon seeing it, he decided the hat was guilty of a criminal offense. Nat supposed that if he had been pressed, he would have said she was a brunette. It was true but hardly accurate.
Sunlight flickered through the windows as the Pullman coach rattled rhythmically along the tracks. At regular intervals a sunbeam would glance off her hair and lift a wash of deep red to the surface. Auburn, he thought it was called. If he’d been asked, he would have named it autumn. It had that kind of warmth and glow . . . and he was waxing poorly again.
Shaking his head, Nat finished oiling the holster. He stood, strapped on the gun belt, and replaced the Colt. He put the oil and cloths back in his saddlebag before he sat again. There was a fashion periodical lying on the table that he had been deliberately avoiding, but now, given the fact that she was still sleeping, he picked it up and riffled through the pages. Clearly he had found the source of inspiration for her hats. He looked up from the magazine to stare at the stove. It was tempting to toss it in. It would have provided a brief, yet satisfying burst of flame. He resisted. Felicity Ravenwood was going to be furious. It was probably better if he didn’t add fuel to that fire.
Nat stretched his long legs as he leaned back. He found an article that discussed what fashionable women would be wearing this winter when they went ice skating in Central Park. He had never been ice skating. He wondered if Felicity had. She would be better than merely competent, he thought, which was the best he could hope that he might achieve. It was easy to imagine that she would be graceful. Her long legs would lend her an elegant line, and she would glide effortlessly across the frozen pond. He had a picture of her in his mind wearing an ermine-trimmed skating costume that showed off slender ankles. Even better, she was hatless. Except for two silver combs to keep her hair from falling forward, it was unbound. It moved as she did, the cascade of long, unruly curls swinging slightly from side to side. She was enchanting, and Nat Church was mesmerized.
That was how it came to pass that the hero at Harrisonville and Broken Bow, the solver of the mystery of the Chinese Box, the winner of the Shooting Contest, and the man who put the Best Gang behind bars, to name only a few of his accomplishments, was completely blindsided by the shoe flung at his head.
The pump heel smacked him squarely on the forehead. The kid leather shoe, dyed claret to match Felicity’s gown, bounced off his head and fell on the table, its landing softened by the open pages of the fashion periodical.
“That’s some aim you have,” Nat said. There was no rancor in his voice. He lifted his arm slowly and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. “I suppose you think you have your reasons.”
Felicity threw back the covers and pointed to her feet. “You suppose? You suppose?” Heat flushed her cheeks pink. “I have more reasons than Carter has Little Liver Pills. You put me in leg irons!”
Nat stopped rubbing his head and held up an index finger. “One leg iron. Singular. Would you like your shoe back?” Because she looked as if she were prepared to pitch the other shoe at him, he decided it was better to keep it. “The shackle is a precaution, nothing more.” When she stared at him with the malevolence that only green eyes of her particular hue could muster, it seemed to him that further explanation was in order. “In the event you wanted to throw yourself from a moving train.”
She continued to stare it him, although her expression held less malice than it had a moment earlier. Curiosity was nudging her toward calm. “You are not quite right, are you?” She touched the side of her head with her fingertips. “Here, I mean. I am wondering what else accounts for your extraordinary behavior.” She raised her shoeless foot a few inches and frowned at the uncomfortable weight that made it an effort to do so. “Please remove this. I entertain no thoughts of killing myself. I am not leaving my coach while it’s moving.”
“All right,” he said, rising. He took the key from the same vest pocket that held her photograph and moved to the bed. He stopped just short of turning the key to look at her. “There will be regular stops for water and coal. Already had one while you were sleeping. Don’t test me.” He didn’t ask for her word. He didn’t figure he could trust it. The better course was to watch her and see what happened. Nat opened the shackle. The chain rema
ined wound and locked around the brass foot rail. He pushed the restraint out of the way and returned to his chair. He watched Felicity massage her ankle and rotate her foot. He didn’t comment. He knew she wasn’t injured, and he gave her a few moments to assess the same.
Felicity stopped rubbing, but she did not release her foot. “Should I be afraid of you?”
“No.” He watched her contemplate that. “There wasn’t any point in asking, if you aren’t going to believe me.”
She closed her eyes briefly as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “I am just realizing that. Whatever you slipped into my tea is still muddling my brain. That’s how you managed this, isn’t it? You put something in my tea.”
“Yes. Chloral hydrate. Only a few drops. I apologize for that, but you were set on staying in jail.”
“I was set on not going anywhere with you.”
“I understand. Still, it couldn’t be helped.”
“I don’t believe that. You could have explained yourself.” She let go of her foot and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She didn’t try to stand. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because you wouldn’t have liked it.”
She sighed, resigned. “I don’t think I’m going to like it now. You really do know the judge’s wife, don’t you?”
He nodded. “And the judge. And Joe Pepper. Several other ladies as well.”
“And they’d vouch for you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then you really don’t mean me any harm.”
“That’s right.”
“And you’re not abducting me for ransom?”
“No, ma’am. Not for ransom. This is more in the way of a favor, although I do hope I can collect on the fifty dollars I advanced for the cause.”
“I can pay you back the fifty dollars.”
“I know, but to my way of thinking, it would be like taking a bribe. Besides, I peeked in your reticule. You don’t have fifty dollars left.”
She waved aside his objection. “I can write a draft.”
