by Jo Goodman
Phoebe’s mouth gaped, closed, and fell open again, this last time only slightly parted. She blinked, mostly to clear her watery vision, but also because she was surprised.
“You.”
“Mm.” He stepped inside and kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot. He wasted no time closing the gap between them. “I was at the window. I had to be sure you were alone.”
Even learning it after the fact, the realization that he had been watching her—again—still had the power to make her feel oddly vulnerable. For want of a reply, she nodded faintly. She did not know if he took any notice of it. He was already bending at the waist and slipping his hands under the bed frame. With very little effort, he raised the bed half a foot above the floor. It was much more room than she needed to get free of the leg, but she was too grateful to ask him if he was trying to impress her. And then there was the possibility that he would ask her if he had succeeded. She would have to admit that he had. Or lie.
“How is your head?” she asked when he dropped the bed and hunkered beside her. “I couldn’t rouse you on the train.” He grunted something unintelligible, which she took to mean that he did not want to be reminded of his humiliating fall. She winced when she felt his fingers brushing her wrists as he plucked at the knot.
“I’m thinking you tightened this as you were trying to work it free,” he said.
She had thought the same. “Probably.”
“I’m going to use my knife.” That said, he spread his duster open and reached inside.
Phoebe could not help herself. She flinched when he showed her the knife he extracted from a leather sheath strapped to his thigh. That weapon had not been visible to her on the train. Every bit of eight inches long, the finely honed edge glinted in the lantern light. There was no removing her eyes from it. Words tripped over each other in her effort to get them past her lips, “I’m Phoebe Apple, and I think I very much would like to know your name.”
He smiled then, just a little. “I know who you are, Phoebe Apple, and I’m not going to hurt you. Stay still.”
She didn’t breathe until she felt her wrists part ways. Slowly, because her arms were stiff from being held behind her back, she brought her hands forward. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him sheathe the blade. She took a second breath, this one deeper and more calming than the first.
“May I?” he asked, indicating her wrists.
She regarded him for a long moment, not because she had any trepidation about allowing him to tend to her, but because she simply could not turn away. Looking into his eyes was like staring down into the dark waters of the East River from the height of the Brooklyn Bridge. One could imagine making the leap, disappearing under the surface with hardly a ripple, and never coming up for air, nor wanting to. At least she could imagine it. Phoebe couldn’t say if other women were seized by images of drowning in those unfathomable eyes, but it seemed likely as she was credited to be a practical individual who rarely entertained fantastical notions.
She realized she would have to revise that opinion of herself. Tonight, upon being left to her own devices, she had been susceptible to all manner of bizarre images as she contemplated her demise. Now she could add death by drowning in twin bottomless pools to the list.
It was only when he lowered his eyes to where her fingers were threaded against her swollen abdomen that the spell was broken. Phoebe followed his gaze, flushing when she understood that she had never answered his question. She unclasped her fingers and raised her hands, turning them over to reveal her palms and the delicate underside of her wrists.
Seeing the extent of the angry red abrasions, he whistled softly. “You were determined; I’ll give you that. You’ve got some rope fibers embedded in your skin. That will have to wait until later.” He looked around the sparsely furnished cabin. “Do you see anything to make some bandages?”
She didn’t. There were no linens on the bed and no chest that might hold any. There was a board with three pegs on it next to an ancient woodstove, but nothing hung from it. She stared at her wrists. Tiny beads of blood dotted the skin. Now that she was free of the rope, she was becoming aware of the pain associated with her injury. It was nothing she could not tolerate, but it felt as if she were wearing two thorny bracelets. She turned her wrists this way and that, examining them from all sides.
“What about your petticoat? Your shift?”
Phoebe looked up, startled.
“To make bandages,” he said patiently.
“Oh. Of course. I should have thought of it.” She lifted the hem of her skirt to a point just below her knees and showed him the lacy edge of her shift. She wasted no time mourning the finest undergarment she owned. She had already snagged it on the trail to leave evidence of her passage. What did it matter if she ruined it beyond repair? Taking the cotton fabric in hand, Phoebe prepared to rend it.
“Let me.” The knife was already in his hand.
Her eyes widened fractionally, but she nodded and followed the descent of the blade. In short order the deed was done and he was in possession of two usable strips of cloth. Phoebe arranged her skirt over her legs before she held out her hands. His head bent immediately to the task so she could not be sure that he found her modesty amusing, but it seemed to her that he had. For all the fantastical notions she had entertained tonight, she did not think she was imagining his grin.
“How long ago did they leave?”
“I don’t know. It might have been an hour, maybe less, maybe a lot more.” She watched him wind the first cloth around her wrist. He had long fingers and a gentle touch. Whenever he brushed her skin, she felt the rough pad of his thumb.
“I didn’t expect to find you alone.”
“I did not expect to be left alone. They argued about it. Shoulders wanted one of them—”
“Shoulders?”
“That’s what I call him. Not to his face, you understand. Only in my mind. Mr. Shoulders.”
He nodded. “Go on. You said they argued.”
“Mm. Shoulders wanted one of the others to stay behind. I suppose to watch over me, or at least serve as guard, but I had the sense that neither of the pair wanted to part ways with Shoulders. A matter of trust, I think.”
“Did you learn where they were going or what they intended to do?”
“No.”
“What about the things they stole?”
She shook her head. “I can’t say. What they took from the passengers was always in possession of the men wearing the blue kerchiefs. I rode beside Mr. Shoulders. He kept my horse tethered to his or held the reins himself. The others rode ahead of us and got farther ahead each time I told Shoulders I needed to stop. We never caught up to them until we reached this cabin.”
“Ah,” he said softly. He tied off her left wrist, but before he began working on the right, he reached into a pocket and withdrew the silver-plated comb. “I think this belongs to you.”
Delighted, she smiled fulsomely as she plucked it from his fingertips. “I did not expect to see it again, but it seemed better to sacrifice it than not.” Phoebe patted her head and felt the disarray her hair had become. Her fingers deftly brought a semblance of order before she swept back a heavy lock and inserted the comb. Satisfied, she thanked him.
“What about this?” He dangled a blue kerchief from the pincer he made with his forefinger and thumb.
Phoebe wrinkled her nose and waved it away. “That belonged to Shoulders.”
He stuffed it back in a pocket. “Was Shoulders sick?”
She frowned. “How did you . . .” Her voice trailed off because she supposed it didn’t matter. “No, I was the one who was ill. It was not a delaying strategy on that occasion. The motion of the horse, I think, upset me. It was the same on the train.”
He lifted her right wrist to attend to it. “Seems that might account for why you spent so much time staring
out the window.”
“It doesn’t account for why you spent so much time staring at me.”
One of his eyebrows slanted upward. “Did I?”
“My seatmate said you did.”
“Of course she did. Mrs. Jacob C. Tyler.”
“You know her?”
“We are only recently acquainted. She proved helpful. Set me straight and set me on the right path. It was a good start, but it wouldn’t have meant much if you hadn’t been dropping hints like bread crumbs.” He tied off the bandage and made sure it was not too tight before he released her hand. “I’m still trying to decide if Shoulders didn’t know what you were doing or if he was so confident no one would follow that he didn’t care.”
The latter explanation had never occurred to Phoebe. “I prefer to think he didn’t know.”
“All right. You probably are that cunning.”
“Oh, but I didn’t mean that I—” She stopped herself. “Hmm. I suppose I did mean exactly that. It’s a matter of pride.” He smiled then, just as if he understood, and that almost infinitesimal lift of one corner of his mouth fixed Phoebe’s attention. He was amused by her, she thought, and in other circumstances she might have taken umbrage, but at the moment she was simply too tired to make much of it. And to give that smile its due, it was an excellent one: a bit sly, certainly a little ornery, and, oh, so thoroughly masculine that she actually had to think about breathing.
A crease appeared between his eyebrows. “Is something wrong?”
“Hmm? No. Oh, no.” She could tell he wasn’t sure if he should believe her, but she could hardly offer the explanation for her lapse. She did not understand it anyway. The theater was full of handsome men, and the ones who were less so could be made up to be more so. She was acquainted with several, perhaps as many as a half dozen, whose features were more symmetrically placed, and therefore were more beautiful than this man. At the moment, though, she was hard pressed to name one who was more compelling.
Shifting her gaze to a point past his shoulder, she asked, “Did you come alone?”
“I did. Is that a problem?”
“There are three of them.”
“And two of us. It hardly seems fair.”
“You are awfully confident.”
He shrugged. “Do you need help getting up?”
Phoebe looked down at her belly. “Please.” She put a hand in his and he brought her smoothly to her feet. It was a more graceful ascent than she could have managed on her own. “Thank you.” She smoothed her overblouse, closed her cape, and waited to hear what they would do next. She saw his eyes slip sideways in the direction of the door. “Are we leaving now?”
“Seems best, don’t you think? Especially since we don’t know when they’ll be back.”
“Oh, I think it’s best, but it occurred to me that you were entertaining thoughts of waiting for them and then shooting your way out.”
He smirked. “I bet you read those Western dime novels.”
“I might have read one or two.” She paused. “Or seven.”
“Ah. That goes a long way to explaining why you thought you could stop Mr. Shoulders with your little pea shooter.”
“I’ll have you know it was a .51 caliber percussion model with a five-and-one-half-inch barrel, and the man who sold it to me assured me I could stop a mule with one shot.”
“Huh. He probably reads the same dime novels you do. Up close it could have been deadly had your aim been better, but the way it was explained to me, the distance between you and Shoulders made killing him unlikely. Where’s the pistol now? Did he take it from you?”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Tyler said you winged him, but you rode alongside him for miles. Could you tell how badly was he hurt?”
It was with deep regret that she reported the truth. “The sleeve of his long coat was damaged more than he was. I thought he meant for me to attend to his injury, but he never asked for help. I had an etui in my reticule. If he had returned it, I could have at least sewn the rent in his sleeve.”
“I doubt it occurred to him that you would be so accommodating. You did try to kill him.”
“Yes, well, I think I might have been eternally sorry if I had succeeded, but at the time it seemed a most necessary evil. He wanted Mrs. Tyler’s stunning ring and his men were frightening the little girl. People were injured, you were unconscious, and I was just so damn riled.” Phoebe watched his head tilt a few degrees off perpendicular as he studied her. She stared back, not defiantly, but more matter-of-fact. There was no help for the flush that warmed her cheeks.
“Good to know,” he said finally. He gestured toward the door, inviting her to precede him. “Shall we?”
Phoebe hesitated. “I think it’s prudent to ask where we are going.”
“Probably.”
When he added nothing to his answer, she said, “Where are we going?”
“The nearest town is Frost Falls.”
“Oh, but that could not be better. My ticket is for Frost Falls.” She took a step forward and then stopped. “Wait. What about the passengers on the train? Shouldn’t we go back?”
“They were repairing the tracks when I left. I wouldn’t be surprised if the train isn’t nearing the station about now. It won’t be long before people will be looking for Shoulders and his men. You as well.”
“All right. If you’re sure about the train.”
“I am.” He took down the lantern and carried it outside. “Your horse is over there,” he said, raising the lantern in the direction of the mare. “You think you can ride?”
She sighed. “I suppose it was too much to hope that the town was within walking distance.” She drew a fortifying breath. “I can sit in the saddle, which I understand is not the same as riding.”
“No, it’s not.” He walked with her to the mare, gave her a leg up, and then handed her the lantern while he took the reins and led her to his mount. “This is Bullet. He proved his worth tonight. I traded a thoroughbred for him, and I believe now that I got the better of the deal.” He released the reins, put one foot in a stirrup, and threw the other leg over the back of the gelding. “Do you want me to hold on to your mare’s strings, or do you think you can manage?”
Phoebe was glad for having the choice, but she knew what the answer had to be. “You’d better hold them.”
“That’s fine. Give me the lantern.” When she passed it to him, he extinguished the light and then tossed it on the ground. “We’d be spotted carrying it from miles away. Ready?”
Was she? She thought she was right up until the moment he put her on the horse.
“Whatever’s bothering you, you better say it now,” he told her, addressing her silence.
“I don’t know your name.”
“That’s what’s making you hesitate?”
Rather lamely, she said, “It seems as if it might be important.”
“I am going to point out that you left the train with a man you still call Mr. Shoulders. Did you ask him his name?”
“I did. He wouldn’t tell me.”
“Huh.”
Phoebe had rarely heard sarcasm delivered so succinctly. His tone was so dry it was a wonder it didn’t scratch his throat. She lifted her chin a fraction and squared her shoulders. “I’m sure he thought I was foolish to ask.”
“He had just robbed a train and abducted you. Yes, I can see that.”
“You think this amusing, don’t you? Well, it’s not.” Moonlight made it easy for her to see him raise his hands, palms out. What she did not know was if he was surrendering, communicating his innocence, or anticipating that he would need to ward her off. “How do I know you are not one of them?”
He lowered the hand holding the reins and lifted the other one to the back of his head. He massaged a spot behind his ear. “Thought for sure my headache was goi
ng away, but damn if you haven’t nudged it awake.” He clicked his tongue, gave Bullet a firm kick, and lightly snapped the reins. “As much as I’m looking forward to hearing you explain that, it’s going to have to happen while we’re on the move. Seems like asking you if you were ready was more in the way of a rhetorical question.”
Chapter Five
They rode in silence for miles, which suited Remington. He wasn’t certain that it suited Phoebe Apple, although whenever he glanced in her direction to assure himself she was still in the saddle, it seemed to him that her expression was more thoughtful than brooding. He favored that. He’d had his fill of sulky women.
“I believe I owe you an apology.”
Remington gave a small start as much from the sudden sound of her voice as from what she’d said. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“I think I do. Clearly you took offense to my question and it’s put you in a mood.”
“I don’t even remember your question.”
“Liar,” she said stoutly. “I asked if you were one of them. One of the gang. You heard that as an insult, and upon reflection, I do not blame you for brooding about it.”
“Brooding?”
“Sulking, then.”
“Now I’m insulted,” he said dryly.
“No. You’re not. You’re amused. I can tell. It’s all right. I prefer it to petulance.”
“Petulance,” he repeated, giving the word weight and consideration. He turned to look at her. “Do you really think I petulate?”
“Fool. That’s not a word.”
“If I’m doing it, it should be.” He saw her mouth flatten but decided it was more in aid of checking her own amusement than demonstrating disapproval. “Go on, then. Apologize.”
She blinked. “I thought I did.”
“No. You said you owed me an apology and told me why. I’m waiting to hear something like, ‘I’m sorry.’ Or, ‘Please, forgive me.’ Either is acceptable.”
