by Jodi Thomas
“At least that’s what the card said,” the teller had told the reporter. “Then he—or she, hard to tell—passed a note through the bars, asking if we had safety-deposit boxes. I said we did, and then he asked if he could look them over before he left his parcel. I said, ‘Sure,’ and took him back to the vault.”
According to various accounts, the person in black had exited the bank several minutes later, still carrying the case. The teller was found an hour later, locked in the vault, sleeping off the effects of chloroform. Only two boxes had been opened, and while the newspaper didn’t list the contents, Richard knew exactly what was missing: from one box, two hundred bearer shares issued by the New York and Ohio Railroad, and from the other, a yet-to-be-tallied fortune in unset jewels.
“Kingston Allied Insurance of Baltimore,” the Omaha Sentinel article had concluded, “is offering a substantial reward for the safe return of the jewels. The police expect to apprehend the thief soon.”
Not much hope of that, since they didn’t know the gender, eye color, hair color, or voice characteristics of the perpetrator. But it did ensure that every insurance investigator, lawman, private detective, and bounty hunter within five hundred miles would be joining the hunt.
He hated when they offered rewards.
Seeing the late boarders come through the door at the front of his car, Richard took the precaution of removing his hat and setting it on the seat beside him before turning again to the window. The narrow wooden benches were uncomfortable at best, but more so for a man of his height.
He would have preferred the plush comfort of a sleeper, but there were no Pullmans on this train, or even a dining or parlor car, which would have afforded him an opportunity to move around and study the other passengers without drawing notice. Luckily, there were only two other passenger cars on this run, and they were almost filled. After checking them thoroughly and seeing nothing of concern, he had returned to this car and settled into the window seat on the last row. This car, coupled directly behind the tender, would be the last to fill since it was the noisiest and grimiest due to the soot and smoke coming off the engine stack. But it also offered the best vantage point to study new arrivals.
Still facing the window, he listened to passengers milling about in the narrow aisle. A moment later, footsteps slowed beside his row. He heard a thump when something heavy—a valise?—dropped to the floorboards, then felt a shiver go through the bench as someone sat down.
Frowning, he turned to find the swan sitting beside him. Interest sparked. He supposed if he had to have a seatmate, she would be better than the farm boy with the chicken he had seen standing in the boarding line.
Without a glance in his direction, she retrieved a small book from the valise at her feet, opened it, and began to read.
“You’re sitting on my hat,” he informed her, wondering how she could have missed it. With its wide brim, the Stetson covered half the bench seat.
Careful not to bend the bleached ostrich feather poking out of her bowler, she pulled off the scarf, then turned and regarded him without expression. She had black hair pinned in a bun at her nape and astonishing blue eyes framed by lashes so dark and lush against her cold-reddened cheeks they looked like two small, black feathers caught on a pink bedsheet.
Definitely a beauty.
The lashes swept up and down. A smile tugged at her lips. Full lips, also reddened by the cold, with a slight upturn at the corners. The top was plumper than the bottom, which made her mouth seem swollen. It drew his eyes, sparked imaginative musing about what might have caused it. A lover’s good-bye kiss?
“Am I?”
He forced his mind back on track. “You are.”
Reaching under her skirts, she groped around, finally pulled out his flattened hat. “What was it doing on the seat?”
Snatching the Stetson from her gloved hand, he punched out the crown, pinched the crease along the edge back into shape, then returned it to his head. “I put it there.”
“Why?”
“To discourage unwanted company.”
“Ah.” Her smile spread, parting those alluring lips to reveal very white, evenly spaced teeth with a slight overbite. “So I was correct.”
“About what?”
“My choice of seats. I had hoped by your dour expression that you wouldn’t attempt to draw me into tedious discourse. I’m pleased to see I was right.”
Dour? He wasn’t dour. Preoccupied, perhaps. Dour was for old men, not thirty-five-year-olds scarcely into their prime. However, before he could explain the distinction, she returned to her book, signaling an end to the conversation.
Disgruntled, he faced the window again as the last snow-dusted stragglers hurried to board—an elderly couple, the man wearing a black armband, the woman in full mourning, including veiled hat; the lumbering farm lad with his chicken; and a man with a bushy brown mustache, carrying a small satchel with a shoulder strap and wearing a Colt .45 Peacemaker in a holster on his hip.
The one to watch.
The train jerked, sending the swan against his shoulder. He pretended not to notice, although the softness of her arm against his and the flowery scent she left behind were difficult to ignore.
Roses? Something subtle. Expensive. Not what one might expect from a sporting woman. But then, she was a contradiction on so many levels.
Several more jerks, and they were rolling slowly out of Omaha City, headed west toward Wyoming, through the Wasatch Range of Utah, then on to California.
But he would be disembarking in Salt Lake, assuming all went well. He needed a break. This was his third job in less than a month. Maybe he would take a month off, backtrack south into Texas and New Mexico, revisit the wide-open spaces of his youth. He could certainly afford it.
How could she call him dour? He was distracted, that was all. To prove how wrong she was, he turned to her with what he hoped was a friendly smile. “Are you traveling far?”
She looked up from her book. Her eyes were a sharp, bright blue, the same shade as the aqua waters along the tip of the Florida peninsula. They were far too intelligent for such a pretty face. “Now you wish to talk?”
“Not particularly.”
“And yet you persist in doing it.”
“Only to correct you. You said I was dour. You’re wrong.”
One dark brow rose. “Indeed?”
“I’m not old enough. To be dour, I would have to be at least fifty years of age, which I’m not.”
Amusement warmed the cool blue gaze. “Morose, then?”
He shook his head.
“Melancholic? Suffering dyspepsia? An earache?”
“Tired.” Although, at the moment, he felt quite invigorated. And amused. How long since he’d had a conversation about something other than his current mission? Or been teased by a pretty woman?
“There’s a cure for that,” she said, that tilt at the corners of her mouth rising into a smile. “Go to sleep.”
And before he could think of a snappy retort, she began reading again.
He blinked, astonished by her audacity. And intrigued. Not your average female, his seatmate. Too bold to be a timorous spinster, and too outspoken to be a compliant wife. Obviously, a woman who lived life on her own terms.
A madam, then. Who else would be so brazen?
He smiled at the thought. With a madam—especially one as smart as this woman appeared to be—he could avoid all the wearisome constraints of polite society and simply be himself. Talk without guarding his words. Tease her back a little. And if things went really well . . .
Still smiling, he watched snowflakes race past the window. The prospect of the long run to Salt Lake didn’t seem quite so dreary anymore.
• • •
RACHEL James kept her eyes fixed on the book she held, even though her mind was focused on the man beside her. Why was he smiling? Had he guessed her intent in choosing this seat?
Sprawled as he was, taking up most of the narrow bench, his dark scowl dari
ng anyone to come near, he had made it quite clear he wanted no company. Which was precisely why she had chosen to sit beside him. A man who made such a point of protecting his solitude probably had something to hide.
And she so loved to ferret out secrets. She had a talent for it. But this man might be more of a challenge than she had anticipated.
She had expected a taciturn cowboy. He had the size for it. And the face, with that sun-browned skin and those squint lines around his dark brown eyes. But not the hands, she had realized when she’d watched him straighten his flattened hat. She had never met a cowboy who didn’t show evidence of his profession in his hands—bent or missing fingers, scars, callused skin, broken nails. This man’s hands were more refined—long fingered and clean, but unmarred by hard work. That faint stubble of beard and his overlong dark brown hair gave him a rough, careless appearance, but his eyes told a different story. Despite his attempt to appear aloof, that dark, watchful gaze showed keen interest in his surroundings. And surprising intellect.
If not a cowboy, then what? A lawman? A bank robber? A gambler with a few extra aces up his sleeve?
Rachael prided herself on her intuition. More often than not, after a glance or two, she could pinpoint a person’s age within a few years, ascertain profession and station in life, and determine if there was menace or threat in his or her manner.
Instinct and observation. They had served her well.
But this man gave off such differing tells she was unable to draw any firm conclusions. Although it could use a brushing, his suit was of good quality and tailor-made to fit his large frame. His rumpled shirt showed no food stains and she caught no odor of tobacco or whiskey. He was clean enough to be a doctor or dentist, yet seemed too standoffish. For the same reason, he would be a poor preacher or salesman. But with that air of authority he might make a passable rancher or lawman.
Or an excellent thief.
Certainly, a challenge. And as her late husband had once accused . . . she loved a challenge more than she had ever loved him. Sweet, plodding Charlie.
She snuck a glance at the other passengers, although she could see little but the backs of their heads. Cowboys, farmers, drifters, men with wives and children, that sad elderly couple in mourning, the farm boy with the chicken. Nothing to arouse suspicion.
Other than the man sitting beside her.
Wouldn’t that be a twist?
Biting back a smile, she flipped a page and continued to read—or pretend to. The constant rock and sway of the railcar made it impossible to focus without becoming queasy, and the clatter of the wheels over the joints in the tracks was too distracting.
Beyond the window, farmland gave way to broken terrain, then rising hills. They stopped every twenty or thirty miles to fill the tender with water or take on coal, and many of the passengers took advantage of the short breaks to stretch their legs or make purchases from enterprising locals peddling dime-box meals along the siding. But Rachel’s stomach was too unsettled for a full meal, so she contented herself with small bites of the apple and crackers she had brought with her.
Her seatmate suffered no such malady. He disembarked at each stop—first one off, last one on. Wondering what he was up to, she watched him pace beside the idling train, looking up into every window between bites of his latest box purchase. He tried to be subtle about it, but she wasn’t fooled.
He was looking for someone. Hunting, to be more precise.
When they stopped in Columbus, Nebraska, she decided to move to the second car. She had learned all she could here—the man beside her had not risen to the bait of indifference she had cast out, which normally elicited more attention than she wanted—and she needed to assess the travelers in the other cars. If she found nothing untoward, she could always come back to this seat later.
Rising, she reached down for her valise.
“You’re getting off at this stop?” her seatmate asked in surprise.
“I’m moving to another car.”
“You are? Have I offended you?”
“Actually, you’ve bored me.”
That look of shock again. It was almost comical. “But you said you wanted to avoid conversation.”
“Tedious conversation. And that was hours ago.”
“But now you’re feeling more sociable?”
Rachel hesitated, wondering why he was suddenly so desirous that she stay. Had she misread his aloofness for shyness? The notion amused her. Shy? A man this well-favored? Hardly. Then why didn’t he want her to leave?
“Do you play poker?” he asked when she didn’t answer.
“I don’t gamble.”
“But do you play? For fun?”
“I have on occasion.” For information.
“Excellent.” A grin broke across his chiseled face, involving everything from his lively eyes to a mouthful of white teeth, and adding two deep dents in his whiskered cheeks. Dimples? Rachel was amazed. Who knew such a handsome man lurked beneath that shuttered expression?
“Please stay,” he cajoled and patted the bench beside him. “I’ll behave. I promise.”
She almost wished he wouldn’t. Shoving the valise back under her seat, she smiled and held out her hand as she sat again on the bench. “Rachel James.”
“Richard Whitmeyer.” He gave her fingers a quick squeeze then reached into his pocket. “And I just happen to have a deck of playing cards right here.”
And a gun, Rachel noted when his jacket gaped open and she saw the shoulder holster under his arm. A professional gambler, then. That would be a real challenge . . . besting a cardsharp at his own game, using information as currency. And the first thing she wanted to know was why, after five hours of silence, he was suddenly so anxious for her company.
“You deal first,” she said with her most winsome smile . . . which, around him, wasn’t that difficult. “And refresh my memory about what beats what.”
• • •
“YOU’RE not even trying,” she accused a while later.
Richard looked up from his cards to find her studying him with that teasing glint in her pretty eyes. “Yes, I am.”
“Then you’re either a poor player, or a hustler trying to lure me into complacency. At this rate, I’ll soon be out of questions.”
His earlier suspicion that she was either a madam or a card dealer or both had grown with every hand he’d purposely lost—a man could often learn more from the questions asked than the answers given. She was too skilled to be a casual player, and he knew most bordellos also offered gambling and it wasn’t unusual for a madam to deal at her own gaming tables. When he’d suggested cards, it had simply been a ploy to keep her from leaving; despite his initial reservations, he’d found Rachel James to be a perfect seatmate—easy to look at, silent, and sweet smelling. But now it had become less a diversion and more of a challenge to figure out who she was and what she was really after. “Perhaps I’m having a run of bad cards.”
“Perhaps.” Her smile widened, which made him lose his train of thought.
The woman was no dunce. She knew how to work her charms. At first he’d found it amusing to have to answer questions when he lost: Where are you from? Texas. Are you married? No.
But he was beginning to wonder what other games she might be playing. Earlier, he had seen her studying the other passengers while pretending to read, and he knew she had watched him whenever he’d left the car. Why? Was she setting him up as a mark in a confidence scheme?
That would certainly be a switch—the hunter becoming the hunted.
“Your question?” he asked, shuffling the cards.
“What brought you to Omaha City?”
“I had . . . business connections there.”
“What kind of business?”
He looked up, felt himself sinking into those blue eyes, and fumbled the cards. “Isn’t the rule only one question per win?” he asked, gathering them up again.
“Of course. My mistake.”
He dealt them each five
cards facedown on the folded newspaper balanced across their knees. This time, he had two tens, a trey, and a pair of sixes. “Another card?” he asked her.
When she shook her head, he tossed the trey, drew a four, then called. His two pair beat her two pair. He had his question ready. “Are you in business?”
“I have . . . business connections,” she mimicked with a teasing smile. “But I don’t run my own business. Yet.”
“And when you do start your own business,” he pressed, “what will it be?”
“Sorry. That’s two questions.”
Richard masked his frustration behind a bland smile. All he’d learned in the two earlier hands he’d won was that she was a widow and she was traveling to San Francisco to visit her sister. But he wasn’t sure he believed her in view of all the inconsistencies.
For instance, her choice of forfeits—information—seemed odd, especially after her initial disinterest. Then the way she dressed. Her clothing was too showy for long train travel. Had her late husband left her financially independent, or was she earning money in another way? Confidence woman, madam, gambler, or simply a wealthy eccentric?
He figured madam. But that could be wishful thinking.
He pushed the cards toward her. “You deal. And let’s try blackjack. Maybe it will change my luck.” He regretted they weren’t playing strip poker. That would definitely improve his playing.
“There’s no such thing as luck,” she said, dealing with practiced efficiency. “Only mathematical probabilities. We drive our own destiny by making good or bad decisions based on those probabilities. Luck has nothing to do with it.”
A philosopher, too? He looked at his first card. Five of clubs. “And if I draw a poor hand?”
“You fold. That would be the wise decision.”
“But less fun than a bluff.”
“Fun? That’s a different game altogether.” She surprised him by laughing. A soft, breathy chuckle that was as arousing as a touch.
He drew in a deep breath to distract himself from the sound of it, and watched her slide over his next card. He liked watching her deal. She had discarded her gloves, and her fingers were long and tapered, moving over the cards in an almost sensual way. He wondered if they were as soft as they looked. How they would feel against his skin. What a night with her would cost him.
