A Touch of Frost

by Jo Goodman

  He laid his hand on what he hoped was her shoulder and said her name. She surprised him by bolting upright and doing it with enough force to knock him on his ass and disturb the angle of his Stetson.

  “All right, then. You’re awake.” Watching her closely, he resettled his hat. “But you’re not awake, are you?” He waved a hand in front of her face. She blinked but not in a way that made him confident she was aware of him. He pushed to his knees, inched closer, and clapped her lightly on the back. He said her name again, this time insistently, and was rewarded when he felt her spine go rigid. He kept his palm flat against her back and waited.

  Phoebe breathed in deeply and then expelled that lungful of air in careful measures. She wrestled her arms free of the blanket and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes.

  “It’s time to go,” he said, increasing the pressure of his hand at her back.

  She nodded. Her hands fell to her lap. “I never meant to fall asleep.”

  “I believe you.” He rose higher on his knees and started to shrug out of his long coat. “I want you to take this.” The fact that she did not argue this time was a clear indicator of just how cold she was. He settled the coat around her shoulders, stood, and helped her to her feet. “We get plenty of brisk nights in May. Sometimes we get snow.”

  Phoebe shivered hard. Remington’s coat slipped off her shoulders.

  “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t have said that.” He picked up his coat before she could. “Here. Take off your cape and slip your arms in these sleeves.” When Phoebe proved reluctant to part with any source of warmth, Remington did not try to persuade her. He undid the frog at her throat before she could bat his hands away, removed the cape with the flourish of a bullfighter, and then flung it to the side to keep her from reaching for it. His leather duster was ridiculously large for her, but that made it easy to wrap her in it. The shoulder seams hung well below her shoulders and only the tips of her fingers were visible outside of the sleeves. Phoebe stood taller than many women of Remington’s acquaintance, but the hem of his coat brushed the tops of her ankle boots. Although Phoebe did not strike him as a particularly vain woman—unlike her sister—he knew better than to smile at the picture she made. She had managed to make herself smaller by huddling in his coat the way she had huddled under the blanket. He turned up the collar so that it covered her ears and tucked her hair under it.

  Phoebe did not stop him, but as soon as he was done, she patted the top and back of her head, clearly searching. “I’ve lost my comb,” she told him and began to look around for it.

  Remington glanced around as well. “I don’t see it.” Which was true on the face of it. “I can come back when there’s daylight and look for it.” He anticipated that she would harbor some doubts about that, but she merely nodded and thanked him. Awkward explanations aside, he was tempted to pull the comb out of his pocket and give it to her. He didn’t, though, because the memory of her silky hair still resided in his fingertips and he had not changed his mind about the comb being an accomplice in the crime against nature.

  “We need to go. I came across one of the search parties. They’re waiting for us.”

  Phoebe’s eyes sought out the mare. Now her expression was doubtful. “I don’t think I can ride. Maybe if someone were chasing me . . .” She shook her head. Her rueful smile wobbled, turned watery. She brushed impatiently at her eyes and sucked in a breath. “I should try. I should do at least that much.”

  Remington did not attempt to dissuade her. It was a long walk to reach the search party, longer still to reach Frost Falls. The more ground they could cover on horseback, the better. He considered setting her sideways on the saddle, but was not hopeful that she could stay on the mare’s back.

  “What if you rode with me?” he asked.

  Phoebe shifted so she could see past him to where he’d tethered his horse “I don’t think Bullet would like that.”

  “I don’t think Bullet would know. I figure that soaking wet you weigh about as much as my little finger.”

  The absurdity of that made her chuckle. “All right. We’ll try that.”

  Remington mounted first and then pulled Phoebe into the cradle made by the saddle and his thighs. Sitting sideways as she was, he forced himself to remain stoic in the face of all her fidgeting. To keep the saddle horn from digging into her hip, which seemed to be her main concern, he suggested that she put her arms around him. She complied without hesitation. Once she embraced him, it was natural that her head would fall against his shoulder. He had not anticipated that. If he turned his head the slightest degree in her direction, his chin would brush against her hair.

  “Is it all right for you?” she asked. “You’re probably warmer now.”

  Warmer? He might have laughed if she had not been so naively sincere. “I’m fine,” he said. There was nothing he could do about the slight catch between the words. He cleared his throat, tugged on his collar. “Just fine.”

  They rode for miles that way, Bullet making the journey in an easy walk, the mare tethered and following close behind. Remington did not know precisely when it happened, but at some point, Phoebe fell sleep again. Her head lolled into the curve of his neck. He did not try to wake her.

  Remington counted six men patrolling the general area where he had left only three. He did not make himself known until he had identified all of them, although that did not take long. He recognized his father immediately and then sifted through the other riders until he spotted Jackson Brewer. He saw Ben when the younger man separated himself from Blue Armstrong’s side. Mr. Washburn and Hank Greely were slowly circling the group. He threw up an arm and caught Greely’s eye. The dour livery owner changed course, heading toward him. Without any kind of observable signal, the others followed.

  Remington raised a finger to his lips as they neared and held it there until they nodded their understanding. He waved his father forward and the other riders separated to accommodate Thad’s approach. His father’s smile was grim as his eyes wandered over Phoebe.

  “She’s all right?” he asked quietly. “When she wasn’t at Thunder Point . . .”

  Remington said, “Exhausted, but not injured.”

  “Then they didn’t . . .” Thaddeus left the rest of thought unspoken.

  “No. They didn’t.”

  Thaddeus exhaled, turned his attention to Remington. “You, son? You’re all right? Mrs. Tyler informed me that you took a hard fall on the train. Cracked your head, she said.”

  “Of course she did. Mrs. Tyler is a busybody.” Sensing that Thaddeus was searching for a lump, Remington touched the side of his head above his temple. “But she isn’t wrong. Hurts some. Had worse.”

  Thaddeus leaned over, set his hand on Remington’s shoulder, and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you. What you did, well, it’s appreciated.”

  Remington did not shy away from his father’s gratitude. He knew it to be true whether Thaddeus said it aloud or not. His father’s next words, though, he wished were left unsaid.

  “Fiona will want to thank you as well.”

  Remington shrugged. It had the effect of removing his father’s hand from his shoulder, although that was not his intention. “There’s no reason for her to thank me.”

  “On the contrary.” Thaddeus withdrew his hand. “You’re bringing Phoebe to her, not Northeast Rail. She’ll understand that.”

  Remington felt Phoebe stir. He wanted to get underway before she woke, but he could not leave before he knew the answer to the question uppermost in his mind. “Is Fiona waiting at the station?”

  “No. At the ranch.”

  Remington did not ask for an explanation. In hindsight, he thought he shouldn’t have asked the question. His father’s terse response led him to believe Thaddeus was disappointed in Fiona, perhaps embarrassed by her absence. Remington did not want to expose that to the men who had formed a semicircle arou
nd them and were waiting patiently for an indication they could leave.

  Remington nodded to them. “We can go.”

  Jackson Brewer elected to stay back to corral the other search party and return to Frost Falls with them. Thaddeus had made it clear, over the strenuous objections of everyone else, that if Phoebe was returned safely, he had no interest in the money. The sheriff was free, of course, even duty bound, to go after the thieves for what they stole from the passengers, but Thaddeus was not interested in pursuing them about Phoebe’s abduction.

  Remington kicked up an eyebrow when this was explained to him, not by his father as he would have expected, but by Sheriff Brewer. Remington had no response save for silence. He remembered telling Phoebe his father would demand justice; now it seemed her safe return was what mattered. There probably wasn’t an argument in his head that the others had not already put forth. The best thing for now was to keep his own counsel. Phoebe might want her pound of flesh, and if she did, he could imagine Thaddeus being persuaded to change his mind. There ought to be a reckoning for Mr. Shoulders and the pair hiding behind blue bandannas. There ought to be, if not justice, then an accounting of the facts. Remington could support that, even if his father could not.

  • • •

  Phoebe woke less abruptly than she had the last time Remington put his hand on her shoulder, but she was no less disoriented. It required several moments for her to understand the hard pillow beneath her cheek was Remington’s chest and that what she was gripping so fiercely in her fists was not a sheet but his shirt. Her fingers were stiff, and she unfolded them slowly, removed her hands from beneath his jacket and vest, and then released him entirely.

  “Easy,” he said, his voice close to her ear. “It’s better if you hold on to something.”

  Phoebe clutched his jacket sleeve and raised her head. Her vision was blurry and her eyelids felt weighted by the depth of her sleep. “Where are we?”

  “About three miles from Frost Falls.”

  That brought her upright. She became aware of two things simultaneously: The saddle horn was digging painfully into her hip again, and they had acquired an escort. Blinking rapidly, she twisted her head around to search for a familiar face. Her gaze settled on Thaddeus Frost and she felt her heart ease and the knot in her stomach uncoil.

  Thaddeus had a broad, welcoming smile for her. “Sleeping Beauty,” he said. “Is that right? Is she the one?”

  “If I look as if I’ve slept one hundred years, then she’s the one.”

  Remington put up a hand to halt his father’s objection. “Come around on my left before she breaks her neck trying to get a good look at you.”

  Thaddeus slowed, let Remington get ahead, and then came abreast of Phoebe on the other side. He continued as if there had been no interruption. “You look fine, Phoebe. Real fine. My son here treating you like he should?”

  “More like he’s treating me as I deserve. I have no complaints.”

  “That’s good, then.” His cheeks puffed as he blew out a breath. “Not everyone coming to Colorado gets the welcome you do.”

  “I wondered. Have you found them?”

  “No. That’s the sheriff’s problem now.” He introduced her to the others, saving Ben Madison for last. “You remember me telling you about Ben? He’s our housekeeper’s boy. Been with us about as long as she has and turned himself into a pretty good wrangler.”

  Phoebe was able to call up the memory of that conversation. She remembered thinking Thaddeus had raised Ben as if he were a second son, though he never described their relationship in that manner. There was affection there, if not a bond as strong as Thaddeus shared with Remington, and Ben had been privileged to have advantages growing up in the Frost household that he could not have had elsewhere. From Thaddeus she also knew that Ben and Remington scrapped as youngsters, tolerated each other in their middle years, and grieved separately when Remington was sent away to school. Older by five years, Remington returned a man full grown and Ben was still doing everything he could to catch up.

  “I remember,” she said. Her eyes swiveled to Ben. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Forgive me for not greeting you properly.” She glanced at her hands and then offered Ben a regretful smile. “I have to hold on.”

  “You’re doing fine, miss. Remington’s got you squared away.”

  He did indeed, Phoebe thought. In spite of his suspicions and his nagging, he had never once given up the mantel of guardian angel. He could have abandoned her and told his father that he’d tried, but his sense of honor would not allow it. Thaddeus must have depended upon Remington’s decency, his pride. It said a great deal about the son Thaddeus had raised. It said a great deal about Thaddeus.

  “Why did those men take me?” She addressed the question to the group at large, but expected that Thaddeus would answer first. He did not. It was the deputy who filled the silence.

  “Most likely they knew you had some connection to Mr. Frost here. Ain’t likely you were chosen because they thought your condition was, um, delicate. Remington told us about the package you was carrying. Even miscreants and commandment breakers generally have respect for a woman with child, so it beggars the imagination that they would steal you away on account of that.”

  “Then there was a ransom demand?”

  “Oh, sure,” Blue said. “Two thousand dollars.”

  Phoebe gaped. “That can’t be right.” She looked at Thaddeus. “You did not pay them, did you? Tell me you did not give them a single cent.” But she saw that he had. “Oh, Thaddeus. You are too generous.”

  Blue Armstrong slapped his thigh and chuckled. “No one’s faulting Mr. Frost’s generosity, miss, but you have to allow that this time it was extortion that moved him to clean out the bank’s safe.”

  “Two shelves,” said Bob Washburn. “Just the two shelves.”

  Phoebe ignored that exchange and said to Thaddeus, “You got it back, isn’t that right? We are all heading into town because you got your money back.”

  Thaddeus said, “We got you back. That’s how it works.”

  Phoebe frowned deeply. “But the passengers. They lost their possessions.” As an afterthought, she added in outraged accents, “Those men took my reticule.”

  Thaddeus chuckled. “We have your reticule. One pair of reading spectacles, a red enameled etui, a tortoiseshell hair comb, one pencil stub, and a notepad. Is that about right?”

  “Yes,” she said quietly.

  Remington said, “I guess Mr. Shoulders wasn’t moved to return your derringer.”

  “So it’s true you had a gun,” Blue said. “Heard it back at the hotel from some of the passengers, but I wasn’t sure I could believe them.”

  “It was just a palm pistol,” she said, feeling heat creep into her cheeks.

  “A pea shooter,” said Remington.

  Ben spoke up. “And you really shot one of them?”

  “I barely shot one of them.”

  “Regular Annie Oakley,” Remington said. He wasn’t able to stop her from jabbing him with an elbow, but she was so close and his coat was so heavy he barely felt it. To give her some satisfaction for having made the gesture, he whispered for her ears alone, “Your aim is improving.”

  Phoebe swallowed the bubble of laughter that tickled the back of her throat. A shadow crossed her face as a cloud crossed the moon. When her features were exposed once again to the moonlight, her expression was grave and her attention was all for Thaddeus.

  “When we get to Frost Falls, I have to face passengers who don’t care overmuch that I am returned unharmed. They don’t care much at all about your two thousand dollars. What they care about are the things that were stolen from them. Money. Jewelry. Memories. Weapons.”

  “No one is forgetting that,” said Thaddeus.

  “Mr. Frost is right, Miss Apple,” the deputy said.

  Remington sa
id, “It’s in the sheriff’s hands.”

  She fell quiet, considering, and then nodded faintly. “There’s one other thing,” she said at length.

  “What’s that?” asked Thaddeus.

  “Where is Fiona?”

  Chapter Ten

  Fiona Frost reached out blindly and patted the side of the bed where her husband slept. Thaddeus was not there. He was always there, so it took some time for her to reconcile his absence with what she could recall of their last conversation. Her recollection was incomplete. She had pieces of a whole that would never come together without someone showing her how they fit.

  She pushed herself upright and leaned back against the iron rails of the headboard and for once did not mind how one of them pressed uncomfortably against her spine. The discomfort helped focus her thoughts. Her eyes were not so bleary from sleep that she couldn’t make out the shaft of moonlight stretching across the hardwood floor and spilling onto the rug. The silver-blue light was like a stain, muting the vibrant reds and golds in the rug to shades of gray and dirty mushroom. Turning away, she pinched the slim bridge of her nose between a thumb and forefinger and closed her eyes again.

  “Phoebe,” she whispered. “We argued about Phoebe.”

  Fiona let her hand fall away from her face and took a deep breath through her nose. She held the breath until she couldn’t, and then she pursed her lips and let the air escape in a long, nearly silent whistle. Throwing back the covers, Fiona swiveled her legs over the side of the bed. Only one of her black velvet slippers was waiting for her. She had a vague memory of throwing the other. She looked around, located it under the padded stool in front of the vanity, and thought it had probably ricocheted off the armoire. She would not have thrown it at the vanity and risked damaging the mirror or breaking any of the little pots of cream and rouge or the atomizers that contained specific blends of fragrances that had been made especially for her.