by Jo Goodman
“He picked his way real careful-like, especially when he got to the middle, but I could tell he wasn’t going to make it. I started slitherin’ out after him before the ice collapsed and he went under. Crawled on my belly like a snake to the hole, threw out his coat, which I was happy to have now, and tried to pull him out. ’Course, the ice kept cracking and I kept slithering, and I more or less dragged him through the cracks until we reached the other side. I thought Morgan would have run scared by then, but it was the damnedest thing, he was waiting there dangling his pants for me to take. I grabbed ahold of them, Jack had ahold of me, and Morgan pulled. I never would have guessed he was so strong or that I would be so cold.”
Gideon’s eyes moved from man to man, examining each face. “I reckon I ain’t been that cold again until one of you told me it was safe to cross my horse at the Hickory Creek narrows and the other two agreed. I’m still trying to figure out how you came to that conclusion when none of you ever done the same.”
He was met with silence.
“Well, here’s what I’m thinking. Marcie, you give me your coat. Avery, your boots look to be about the same size as mine. I’ll take those and your socks. Dix, I’d be grateful for your gloves and trousers. You fellas can wear my things or not, but my opinion is that it’s better if you just set them out near the fire. Have a care nothing scorches, else you won’t be getting your things back.”
As one, Marcie, Avery, and Dix stood and began to strip. Gideon only got to his feet when he had an armful of clothes. He changed out his trousers, socks, and boots and handed his wet things over. He huddled in Marcie’s coat before he put on dry boots and gloves.
He sat down and resumed drinking his coffee while his men dealt with his damp garments. He was smiling genially beneath his mustache when they rejoined him. “Nothing like a story to take you back and put you in the present at the same time. I don’t mind saying that I miss Jack, but missing him doesn’t change the fact that he didn’t always have the best judgment. He should’ve known the ice wouldn’t hold him, just like he should’ve known not to deal from the bottom of the deck when there’s a professional gambler at the table. Worse, you don’t keep your gun strapped in your holster. Takes way too long to draw.”
Gideon sighed heavily. “But that was Jackson. Always on thin ice. I blame prison some. There’s no way around the fact that it changed him. Changed me, too, I expect. You?”
Although he directed his question to no one in particular, they all nodded.
“I figured,” he said. “Reckon it changed Morgan, although there’s no telling exactly how. Might’ve made him softer. Maybe harder. Guess we’ll be finding that out.”
Dixon pulled the matchstick out of his mouth and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. “You reckon he knows it’s us?”
“I reckon he knows it’s me,” said Gideon. “I wasn’t aware you ever met Morgan.”
“I ain’t.”
“Well, then. There’s your answer. He probably thinks Jack’s with me. I don’t expect he ever heard that Jack took a bullet eight days out of prison. No reason that he should have, seeing as how Morgan was out three years earlier. He’s got the good sense to know by now we aren’t just any rustlers, and after you boys roughed up one of his the other night, I figure he has an idea that we number about five or six. Better he thinks that than realize there’s only four.”
“How’s that?” Marcie asked cautiously, knuckling his scar.
“It’ll make him cautious, sure, but when we show up at his house, he’ll think we have more men watching. Gives us an advantage.”
“So we’re going in,” said Dix. “Don’t mind sayin’ it’ll be a fine thing to get out of this cold.”
Gideon chuckled. “Your balls about the size of raisins, Dix? That’s not going to change tonight. Not tomorrow either. I’m of a mind to lie low, stay off Morning Star land for a spell. The snow will make us too easy to track, and it can’t hurt for Morgan to wonder what’s become of us.”
“So we’re goin’ to hole up in the hills,” said Dix.
“For a time,” said Gideon, “then we’re going to Rawlins. Get rooms. Get women. Get warm. And we’ll come back when Morgan thinks we won’t. Now that I know where he is, I can see that he’s not going anywhere. I don’t mind saying that there’s sweetness in the anticipation of talking to him again. I know it’s not the same for you, but you haven’t gone wrong by trusting me so far. You got a look around town the other night, got a feel for the layout. Morgan’s got a fine hand with a safe, and I’m thinking there’s one in the Cattlemen’s Trust that he could crack like an eggshell. He owes me, and he knows it.”
Gideon’s gaze made the circle again. “You’re going to benefit from that, gentlemen. Just see if you don’t.”
• • •
Morgan was met with the straw end of Jane’s new broom as soon as he opened up the back door. Snow swirled in eddies around him. He shivered in spite of a turned-up collar and a woolen scarf that covered the lower half of his face.
“Stamp your feet,” Jane told him. “Hard. Don’t track snow on my clean floor.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Behind his scarf he was grinning. Only four weeks had passed since the first snowfall, and Jane’s view of winter’s white blanket had changed somewhat. She still enjoyed it from behind a windowpane, but she had no appreciation for it when it came in on a pair of boots. Morgan dutifully stamped his feet.
Jane looked him over before she raised her broom like a tollgate and let him pass. “I thought you were going to ride out with Max. Did something happen?”
“No.” He unwound his scarf but let the tails hang over his shoulders. “Max said he could handle it. Truth is, sometimes he just likes his own company. Jem, Jake, and Jessop are fanning out past Settler’s Ridge to make sure the cattle have water.” He took the broom from her hands. “Come outside with me.”
“Morgan, I am in the middle of baking bread.”
He glanced at the green-and-white-striped towel covering a bowl on the table. The towel was still noticeably concave. “Dough hasn’t started to rise. Come on. I want to show you something.”
Jane did not offer a second objection. Even though there had been no sign of the rustlers in weeks, it was not often that Morgan invited her outside. She had resumed some chores that took her past the lip of the back porch and into the weather, but she rarely went as far as the barn, especially if she was unaccompanied.
Morgan waited in the kitchen while Jane collected her coat, gloves, and scarf. There was a pair of black leather riding boots secreted away in the barn loft that he intended to give her for Christmas. It was tempting to present them to her early when he saw what she was wearing on her feet. The dainty calf boots with the pointed patent toes were good for digging up dandelions, he supposed, but not much else. They looked pretty enough, though, and that was as good a reason to wear them as any.
He took the red woolen scarf from her hand and wound it over her dark hair and loosely around her throat. A few wayward strands of hair required tucking under the scarf, and her mouth required kissing before he covered it. She used the pointed patent caps on her shoes to gently prod him.
When they stepped outside, Morgan took her gloved hand in his. They walked that way to the barn. He only dropped her hand when they reached Sophie’s stall.
“She’s saddled,” said Jane. “When did you—” She put up the flat of her hand for Sophie to nuzzle and spoke to the mare. “So he gentled you after all, didn’t he? Sweet Sophie. How pretty you are. Have you let him on your back?” She looked askance at Morgan. “Where are the apples?”
Morgan got one for her and cut it into quarters that he gave to Jane one at a time.
Jane laughed as Sophie took each slice from her palm with the refined manners of a New York debutante. “She’s so polite, Morgan. Is that your doing?”
“She’s showing off for you. She snorts and roots like a piglet when I put something in front of her.”
“Wel
l, I think she is a lady.”
“Good. She’s your lady.”
“Have you—” Jane turned her head sharply to look at Morgan, and Sophie used that moment’s inattention to butt her temple. Jane pushed Sophie’s nose back. “My lady? What does that mean?”
“It means Sophie is yours.”
Jane stared at him. “Mine? Do you mean it?”
“Yes. She’s always been yours. Maybe that’s why you knew her name.”
Jane put her hands on Morgan’s shoulders, stood on tiptoes, and kissed him full on the mouth. “It still amuses you that I knew her name, but I don’t mind.” She kissed him again before she dropped back on her heels. “When will I be able to ride her?”
“I brought you out here to have a lesson.”
“Really? Will she take me as a rider?”
“She will. We’ve all been on her.” He pointed to the barn’s back door. “Everyone took her out through there so there was no chance that you would see. I wasn’t sure they could keep the secret much longer. Jem was near to bursting with it at breakfast.”
“I have never had so fine a present at Christmas.”
“She’s a wedding gift. I meant what I said, Jane. She’s always been yours. I cut her from the herd for you.” Morgan saw the sparkle in Jane’s emerald eyes fade ever so slightly. He shook his head as if he could stop the direction of her thoughts. “For you,” he said again. “For my wife. Forget Rebecca. Sophie would dislike her as much as I do.”
Jane only offered a mild challenge. “You do not know that.”
“I do. They share the same features, and Sophie wears them better.”
Jane blinked. “What?”
Morgan tapped Jane’s chin and pointed her to Sophie. “Look at her. Long nose. Flaring nostrils. Muscled cheeks. Strong neck. Broad shoulders. She’s a beautiful animal.”
“I don’t understand. You think Rebecca looks like Sophie?”
“Don’t you?”
Jane stared at Sophie. In her mind’s eye she overlaid it with Rebecca’s bold features. She saw her cousin’s face in a new light, one that did not flatter Rebecca in the least. Jane put her hand to her mouth as her lips parted. “No wonder you thought she could pull a plow.”
Morgan chuckled. “I never said that. You’re the one who mentioned plowing. I said I wanted a strong wife.” He nudged her chin back in his direction. “And I got what I wanted. And she’s beautiful, too.”
Jane batted his hand away and shook her head. “Don’t.”
“Why can’t I say it? It’s true.”
“You don’t go into town enough. It’s easy to forget what a pretty woman looks like.”
“I never said you were pretty. Well, maybe I did, but I didn’t mean it. I just couldn’t say the other.” He shrugged a little diffidently. “About you being beautiful and all, I’m saying. Partly I kept my tongue in my head because it hurts a mite to look on you that way, like there’s a radiant light coming from you that could blind me if I stare too long. Mostly, though, I didn’t say anything because you wouldn’t believe me. I thought maybe that had passed some, but I guess not. That family of yours sure did twist the way you see yourself. The reasons I want to take a swing at them just keep piling up.”
Jane searched his face. She said quietly, “I never know what you are going to say, Morgan Longstreet.”
“Is that good?”
“I don’t know about good, but it keeps me on my toes.” She came up on them again and kissed him. It would have been easy for her to allow it to linger, but she kept it short and full of promise. “Now, about that riding lesson.”
Chapter Eleven
A brief respite from falling snow in January gave Jane the opportunity to visit Bitter Springs. She was confident enough of her riding skills by then to suggest that she take Sophie and go alone, at which point Morgan looked at her as if she’d sprouted a third eye. He did not argue about the trip, but he insisted on using the buckboard and accompanying her. She thanked him, acknowledging his superior judgment in these matters, and immediately returned to working on her list. Morgan knew he had been had. Oddly enough, he wasn’t so sure that he minded it.
Morgan hung back at the entrance of the Cattlemen’s Trust and let Jane go up to the teller’s cage on her own. He stood with his hands behind his back, occasionally rocking forward on the balls of his feet as he looked around. He was an infrequent visitor to the bank, conducting most of his business when he and his men drove cattle to town to be taken up by the railroad.
Nothing had changed at the bank since his last visit. There were two teller cages, but as usual, only one of them was occupied. Morgan did not recall the man’s name. Hall? Hollis? He was a quiet sort and kept transactions brief. He did not allow people to linger at his station, which Morgan thought was wise on his part. Familiarity and chitchat were proven ways to lower a man’s guard. Morgan knew precisely how that worked.
The door to the manager’s office was open wide enough for Morgan to see Mr. Webb hunched over his desk. To his right, the safe’s door was also ajar. Morgan had been in the bank often enough to know it was a practice, not an oversight. Sometime during his long tenure as the manager of the Cattlemen’s Trust Bank, Mr. Webb had become complacent.
The safe was a black 1884 Barkley and Benjamin pin and tumbler model with a four-inch steel door and two-inch steel lining. It was impressively large, standing four feet tall and thirty-two inches deep and wide. Empty, it weighed 536 pounds. It was sold with the Barkley and Benjamin name painted in gold leaf on the door. Most banks added their name. That was true of Cattlemen’s Trust, although Mr. Webb had turned away from the elaborate flourishes used by Barkley and Benjamin and had chosen plain block letters instead. He did, however, elect to use gold leaf.
Morgan’s gaze moved on as Mr. Webb straightened and sat back in his chair. There was no eye contact, which was the way Morgan wanted it.
The lobby was wide and uncluttered. The hardwood floors were polished. There was a table close to the large window that was mostly used by customers as a place to set their parcels. Sometimes people sat there to read and sign papers or study their savings books, but no one was using it today. On the opposite side of the bank, Evelyn Stillwell, the barber’s wife, was engaged in animated conversation with Heather Collins, grandmother to Rabbit and Finn. Morgan made it a point not to eavesdrop. He had never known anything good to come of it.
“Mornin’,” Cobb Bridger said, tipping his hat to the women as he came through the door. They stopped speaking long enough to acknowledge him, then immediately reengaged in their discussion. Instead of heading for the teller’s cage, he stepped sideways and joined Morgan. “It must be important, whatever they’re talking about. I think it’s the first time they haven’t asked after Tru. Her condition generally provokes a ten-minute interrogation.”
“Umeh.”
“Yeah, that’s so.” He lifted his chin in Jane’s direction. “Your wife hasn’t been to town for a while.”
“That’s right.”
“Tru was asking after her, wondering if she shouldn’t invite both of you to Sunday dinner sometime.”
“You discouraged her, I hope.”
Cobb’s smile hinted at his amusement. “You don’t really know my wife, do you?” When Morgan said nothing, Cobb did not press. “I understand you never did run those rustlers to ground.”
“No. Never did.”
“Last time Jessop was in, he told me there hasn’t been any trouble for a while.”
“You can trust what Jessop says.”
“I do. I’m wondering what you think about it. Is it over, or is it a lull?”
“I couldn’t rightly say.” Morgan’s gaze bored holes into the back of Jane’s poppy-trimmed velvet hat, willing her to turn around. Thus far, it had not worked.
“So you’re sticking to your story that they’re just rustlers.”
“It’s like this, Marshal. I know they’re rustlers. Whether they’re something else is still a question,
and we’ve been over it before. Let it be.”
Cobb exhaled softly. There was a hint of impatience in the sound. “You damn well know you’re not making it easy to do that. You’ve never come by to look at the sketches I made of those three men.”
“No, I never did. It’s hard for me to imagine that any of those three would be Jack or Gideon. They’d stay behind, send others to do the scouting.”
“That occurred to me,” Cobb said. “I noticed you and Mrs. Longstreet came alone. You weren’t moving any cattle today.”
“My wife is only learning to ride. She’s not up to herding cows.”
“Funny.”
Morgan shrugged.
“I mention it because your visits to the bank generally coincide with a cattle drive. I figure you make a deposit and take care of your payroll.”
“You have to find something else to do with your time, Bridger.”
“Did I tell you I was studying law?”
“Something else.”
Cobb’s grin appeared, but it was faint and fleeting. “Tell me why you’re here.”
“Finally,” said Morgan. “Never thought you’d get done beating around that bush. Trade places with me.”
“What?”
Morgan crooked his finger at Cobb and then pointed to the space he was occupying. “Trade places.” He stepped aside, waited for Cobb to slide sideways, then stepped into Cobb’s footprints. “Look around.”
Cobb did. “And?”
“Well, from where you’re standing now, you should be able to see that Mr. Webb’s sitting next to an open Barkley and Benjamin safe. That makes the pin and tumbler lock, the four-inch steel door, the two-inch steel lining, and all five hundred thirty-six pounds pretty much just for show. So what I’m doing here besides waiting for my wife to open her own account with this fine institution is resisting the powerful temptation to stuff Mr. Webb in his Barkley and Benjamin and tell my wife she’s better off keeping her money in a trunk.”
