Her father sobered. “I finally guessed as much.” He touched her shoulder, then gazed into her eyes, his full white whiskers and earnest expression ever comforting. “I had a feeling there was something you weren’t telling me. Just this morning, when we were talking about that stranger in church, I knew it. I knew you were keeping something from me. I knew it was bothering you to do so. That’s why I followed you here, so we could talk about it. You, my girl, are not someone who keeps secrets easily.”
“That’s for certain!” Violet laughed, even as grateful tears sprang to her eyes. She felt so relieved to finally have things out in the open. “I can’t tell you how many times I wanted to tell you about something wonderful Cade had done—”
At her side, Cade grew suddenly alert. She hoped he didn’t think she wanted to confide anything intimate. Silly man. She might be a freethinking woman, but she wasn’t entirely daffy.
“—and had to rein in my thoughts for fear you wouldn’t approve. I meant to tell you everything, Papa,” Violet assured him, “once Cade had finished his apprenticeships. I thought I could present the whole thing as another of my charitable accomplishments!” Giddy with relief, she waved her arms and enthused, “You know, just another lonesome soul, brought from darkness into light, saved from demon drink and the perils of gambling…” She paused, grinning. “Something like that.”
On the heels of her own dramatic oratorical triumph, Violet became aware that Cade had grown quite still beside her. He’d turned verifiably wary when she’d begun discussing his overall wonderfulness and her wish to describe that wonderfulness to her father. But that previous guardedness was nothing compared with the way Cade seemed now. His face looked stony, his eyes impassive, his muscles rigid with what appeared to be…anger?
“I’m not anyone’s charity case.” With his jaw tight, Cade clenched his fists. “Especially not yours, Miss Benson.”
His gaze swerved to Violet’s. In his eyes, she glimpsed deep hurt, abundant confusion…and no small measure of defiance.
“I don’t need some self-proclaimed do-gooder looking out for me. I had all the ‘charity’ I’ll ever need when I was just a boy.” Cade swept Violet and her father with a damning look. “As a grown man, I sure as hell don’t need the blessing of a tippling, wagering, deceitful ‘man of God’ like yourself, Reverend. I can get along just fine without either of you.”
Motionless with shock, Violet stared at Cade. Didn’t he know she’d only been chattering on, only half thinking? She hadn’t meant to conjure up painful memories of foundling homes and abandonment. But that seemed to be exactly what she’d done.
“Cade, no!” Violet cried. “I didn’t mean that. I don’t think of you as a charity case. I don’t! I couldn’t—”
Determinedly not listening, utterly closed off to her, Cade grabbed his pitchfork. He stabbed it into a nearby pile of hay, his face as emotionless and fearsome as she’d ever seen it.
From nowhere, Violet recalled Tobe’s childish assertion.
I like bein’ dirty sometimes. It makes me look fierce!
But likening Cade to Tobe made no sense. Not in this context. Cade was no child. And he legitimately was fierce, now more than ever. He was streetwise and aggressive, too. If the hay he was pitchforking didn’t burst into flames beneath his gaze, Violet thought in a dither, it would be a miracle.
Which only served to remind her, in a scrambled and nonsensical fashion, of the stranger in church today. In a flash, his words came rushing back to her. The moment I stepped inside, I half expected the whole caboodle to go up in flames.
If that man really was Whittier…
“I think you both should leave,” Cade said roughly.
“But I was only joking!” Violet grabbed Cade’s arm. He shook off her grasp, then went on working. “Cade, you must know I don’t think of you that way—as one of my charity projects. I—”
Love you, she wanted to say. But his condemning expression and frighteningly lethal gaze left the words stuck in her throat.
Indomitably, Violet tried again. “I was only relieved! I was happy to have our courtship out in the open, that’s all. I spoke out of turn, without thinking clearly. I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t want your apologies.”
“But I am sorry! Please listen to me.”
Cade refused. Obdurately, he shook his head. Again, Violet was reminded of the stranger in church—of his grim expression, his tellingly dexterous hands, his unshakable belief that it was too late for him to apologize for the bad things he’d done.
It’s too late for that. Fifteen years too late.
All at once, Violet had an inkling of what the stranger had meant—and she didn’t like it. If this misunderstanding hardened between her and Cade, she didn’t know how she would cope.
“This is silly,” she insisted. “You can’t really believe—”
“Just go.” Cade turned his back to her. He forked up more hay, then tossed it into the nearest stall. “Leave. Now.”
“I won’t leave!” Violet planted her feet. “I said I won’t give up on you, Cade, and I won’t. Not now and not ever.”
Cade gave her a bleak look. “Spoken like a true do-gooder. Don’t you see? I’m a lost cause—a hopeless case. Just get out.”
No one has ever loved me, she recalled him saying. There’s no reason you should be different.
Well, she was different. Determinedly, Violet rallied.
If she couldn’t reach Cade with caring or mulishness, then perhaps she could influence him with the pull of something she knew he wanted. “I saw Percy Whittier today. I met him. I talked to him.”
Cade gripped his pitchfork. Although his back was turned to her, she thought she glimpsed new tension in his shoulders. Before she could be sure, though, her father touched her elbow.
“Come along, Violet. What’s done is done. You can’t mend a sock that’s still coming unraveled, no matter how fast you darn it.”
Totally confounded, Violet shot her father a confused look. Her father knew nothing about mending. What was he saying?
“The reverend’s right,” Cade said roughly. “You don’t want to be here when I come undone.” He stabbed his pitchfork again. “A soft, sweet, kind person like you could get hurt.”
Violet couldn’t miss his embittered tone. Cade didn’t think she was kind. Not now. Not at all. Maybe not ever. Because just then, everything they’d ever shared felt as insubstantial and unreal as this conversation did.
“It’s too late,” she said. “I already am hurt.”
Then Violet picked up her skirts, nodded to her father and hurried away from the stable just as quickly as she could.
Chapter Twelve
For a man with his own personal valet, Simon Blackhouse required far too long to answer his own front door—or at least what passed for a front door: his train car’s rear hatch.
Unhappy with that fact, Cade frowned at the gaily painted hatch. He lifted the bottle of mescal he’d brought, waved it in the air, then bellowed, “Blackhouse! Open the damn door!”
Sounds of a hurried conversation drifted toward him from inside the train car. Thumping footfalls could be heard.
The door’s twin locks were disengaged. The door opened.
To Cade’s surprise, Blackhouse himself—he of the angelic blond curls and hellaciously cocksure demeanor—stood there in the entryway. His gaze lit on Cade’s liquor bottle.
“Foster! You’re early. The party’s not for hours yet. But you brought libations, so all is forgiven.” With outright merriment, Blackhouse reached for the mescal. “Thank you.”
Cade held it out of reach. He took a deliberate swig.
“Courtesy demands that you surrender whatever gifts you bring.” Blackhouse appeared puzzled. “That’s what’s done.”
“What do you know about ‘what’s done’? You can’t even manage your own valet.” Tipsily, Cade scowled. “I expected Adams to open the door, not you.”
“Adams is busy prepa
ring for the party later,” Blackhouse told him. “I’m perfectly capable of opening a door by myself.”
“Hmm. And here I thought I’d witnessed a miracle.” With sham concern, Cade peered at him. “Opening a door by yourself is almost akin to work, Blackhouse. Does your hand hurt?”
“My hand is fine.” Blackhouse stifled a swearword. He narrowed his eyes. “Which is more than I can say for you, by the way. What happened? You look as though you picked a fight with your conscience—” here, Blackhouse gave a typically devilish grin “—and then crushed that bothersome nag to smithereens.”
“Very astute of you.” Feeling himself waver slightly, Cade pointed his mescal bottle at his friend. Confidingly, he said, “I’m undoing all the reforming Miss Benson has accomplished on me. So far, I’ve cleaned house in faro, drank a third of this bottle of firewater, flirted with four saloon girls and delivered a mighty sockdolager to a mouthy saloon patron who was rude to one of those fine dancing ladies.” Upon remembering that last occurrence, Cade flexed his fingers. He winced. “My hand does hurt. It’s been a while since I’ve been brawling.”
“I see.” Blackhouse gazed at him with uncharacteristic—and in all likelihood, imaginary—sympathy. His erstwhile benefactor stepped aside. “Well, come inside, then. You won’t find any brawls in here, but in a few hours you will find all manner of other distractions. We’ll have drinks and hors d’oeuvres…”
As Blackhouse nattered on describing the evening’s upcoming festivities, Cade listened with half an ear. Clutching his mescal bottle, he entered the train car. It smelled of exotic fragrances, owing to Blackhouse’s enthusiasm for Eastern-influenced objects and incenses. It looked posh, thanks to Blackhouse’s affinity for luxurious fabrics, rare polished woods and expensive metals. It felt safe inside, Cade thought in a nonsensical and probably drunken fashion, as a result of Blackhouse’s insistence on sturdy locks and close-at-hand weaponry. He’d hung multiple knives, one wicked rifle and two—no, three—pistols on the train car walls like fine artwork.
Frowning, Cade considered all the firepower on display. Why did Blackhouse—ostensibly a carefree pleasure-seeker with no ties to anyone—need to have a veritable arsenal at the ready?
“…will have music, too, of course,” Blackhouse was saying as he ushered Cade into the train car’s parlor area, “at least whatever this innocuous mountain town can provide for us…”
Cade swallowed more mescal. The liquor seared a path to his gut, joining with the bitterness there to make an unholy brew. After Violet and Reverend Benson had left the stable, Cade had toiled awhile in blind confusion, abrading his hands with fresh calluses and trying to work off the memory of Violet’s words.
I thought I could present the whole thing as another of my charitable accomplishments! Cade recollected unwillingly. Just another lonesome soul, brought from darkness into light, saved from demon drink and the perils of gambling…
Violet hadn’t seemed to realize what was wrong with that boastful statement. But Cade had, and he’d worked tirelessly to forget it soon after. His efforts had been stymied by a surprisingly compassionate-seeming Owen Cooper, though, who’d wrestled the pitchfork from Cade’s hands and made him leave.
Cooper couldn’t possibly have understood the demons driving Cade. Yet he’d done everything but shove Cade forcibly out the stable doors. For that intervention, Cade had decided—eventually—to be grateful. At least he had once he’d found himself standing outside Jack Murphy’s saloon…and realized he could rid himself of unwanted “salvation” once and for all.
Hell. He should have known he was nothing more than an altruistic exercise for Violet, Cade told himself now as he followed Blackhouse farther into the train car’s well-appointed depths. No woman as pure as Violet Benson could have loved a man like him—a man full of flaws. What had he been thinking?
He was lucky he’d escaped before he’d fallen even harder.
“…and a high-stakes game, just to whet their appetites,” Blackhouse rambled on. Cade hadn’t heard more than one-tenth of what his friend had been saying, but that didn’t seem to matter to Blackhouse. Even now, he turned with an excited flourish.
“But all those things pale, I’d say, compared with what’s up next.” Confidently, Blackhouse gestured to the settee. “I’d planned this to be a surprise for later. Remember? I mentioned it to you at that dingy stable?” He grimaced. “But now that you’re here, Foster, and in such a sorry state at that…”
Blearily, Cade tried to concentrate. “You can be damnably long-winded, Blackhouse. Come to the point, why don’t you?”
“Fine. But first I’d better take this from you.” With gentle insistence, his friend prized the bottle of mescal from Cade’s grasp. “I wouldn’t want you to drop it in surprise.”
“Surprise?” Vehemently, Cade swore. He wanted his alcohol back. He wanted this charade of pleasantries done. He wanted…
Damnation. He wanted Violet. He wanted her to think of him as a man, not a down-on-his-luck recipient of her benevolent good deeds…not a lonesome drifter needing her angelic embrace.
Angelic. Blast. She and Blackhouse had that much in common. They’d both become idealized versions of the people they’d started out to be. They’d both lifted themselves. Cade had sunk. For a while, he’d thought Violet was lifting him, too, but now…
“Nothing surprises me,” Cade grumbled. “Not anymore.”
Blackhouse disagreed. “Are you sure about that?”
Cade fired off another expletive. He shouldn’t have come here. Except something Violet had said—something about seeing Whittier today—had pushed him inevitably toward Blackhouse.
Most likely, some pathetic but still-hopeful part of him wanted to take Blackhouse’s triple-the-money offer, Cade knew. Some part of him insisted on hoping that he could still find Whittier in Morrow Creek, get the money he needed to start a new life, impress Violet, make her his…
His pesky, newly awakened optimism had more kick than he’d reckoned on. Annoyed by that, Cade frowned. “Give me my mescal.”
“I’ll give you something even better!” With a flourish born of innate confidence and inborn good manners, Blackhouse waved his arm. His grin widened like a child’s on Christmas morning. “Behold! Your surprise!”
Wearily, Cade glanced in the direction he indicated. A young man sat patiently on the settee, all angular arms and long legs and broad shoulders, wearing a grin that looked several degrees more uncertain than Blackhouse’s. His hair was dark, his eyes blue, and in their depths, Cade glimpsed a million close-held memories—memories that stretched from boyhood till now.
“Hellfire, but you’ve developed a thirst for mescal,” the young man said in a husky, emotion-choked tone. He rose, his gaze fixed firmly on Cade’s face. “I haven’t tried any of that Mexican liquor myself, but I guess I’m going to have to sample some now. If my brother says it’s drinkable—” he stretched out his arms for an embrace “—then I reckon there’ll be no arguing.”
He stood there a moment, leaning markedly on one leg. He kept his arms outstretched, his attitude full of buoyant hope and unabashed optimism—full, in fact, of the selfsame optimism that Cade was currently at war with. This could only be one man.
Cade blinked, still disbelieving. “Judah?”
*
Hunched on her bed, wrapped in a quilt that her mother had stitched long ago, Violet lugged another leather-bound ledger onto her lap. On the bureau beside her bed, her oil lamp cast a golden glow over the pages. Next to it sat an untouched cup of tea—brought a while ago by her father—and beside it, a jumble of jacks belonging to Tobe. They’d played a few games earlier, but Violet had been unable to keep her mind on the diversion.
All she could think about was Cade—and the way she’d hurt him. It had been an accident, of course, but did that really matter? In the end, he was as wounded as if she’d kicked him on purpose. She might as well have screamed that she didn’t want him—that, just like those foster familie
s who’d passed over Cade and his brother, Judah, she’d found him lacking and unlovable.
I had all the “charity” I’ll ever need when I was just a boy. Of course Cade thought that. He might have experienced poorly given charity, but he’d never encountered real love.
It was Violet’s mistake that he’d somehow confused the two. She’d offered love. He’d experienced charity. Violet had no idea, especially now that they’d parted, how to bridge that gap.
Feeling more distraught than ever, she wrenched open the train-station ledger that Joseph Abernathy had given her. Rows of penciled-in names and dates met her gaze, adrift in a sea of swirling cursive letters and numbers. The task before her suddenly seemed nigh impossible. It would have even if she hadn’t been despairing and upset just then. Who was she to think she could find Tobe’s mother, where others had failed?
Except there had been no others, Violet reminded herself staunchly, forcing herself to rally as she always did, especially when someone needed her. Tobe had not gone to the authorities, she remembered. He’d feared Sheriff Caffey would toss him in his jailhouse or send him to do forced work. He’d worried a “reformer” like Violet would march him onto an orphan train or enlist him in church service. So rather than look to responsible adults for help, Tobe had fended for himself. He’d banded together with vagabond youngsters in similar circumstances, and he’d made himself seem as akin to them as possible, and he’d gotten by somehow.
But that wasn’t good enough anymore. Determined to help him, Violet rubbed her eyes. She refocused on the ledger. If she concentrated hard enough, she would think about finding Tobe’s mother, Mrs. Larkin, and not about Cade. She would grant herself some reprieve from worrying about Cade and maybe do some good in the process. That’s what she always did, wasn’t it?
Sometime later, a knock at her door dragged her away from her records. Drained and gritty-eyed, Violet glanced up. “Yes?”
Her bedroom door creaked open. Adeline Wilson, her very best friend, stuck her head around the door frame. She smiled. “It’s about time you heard me. I’ve been knocking for ages!”
Lisa Plumley Page 17
