“Cantankerous horses, yes. I prefer my lady friends to be compliant and yielding.” He turned back to the machine and slowly toyed with the gears. “Let her rest a bit. I’m sure you worked the heck out of her tonight,” he said, his eyes trailing over to the pile of freshly printed papers.
“If you ever want to renege on a life of crime you are more than welcome to work here and fix this hunk of metal by talking to her.”
“Is that a guarantee, Miss Tamar?”
Her cheeks flushed with the thought of him fixing many other things in her life. If anyone could read her lusty thoughts right now, she would be doused in holy water, submerged in holy oil, and prayed over for a fortnight. “I was making light. Joshing you. A joke.”
“I don’t hear many of those. I don’t have many things that brighten my day or outlook.”
“I can give you plenty.” She scrambled to her desk and pulled open some drawers. A joke book. She thumbed through the book. “Why is a dog like a tree?”
He shook his head. “No clue.”
“Because they both lose their bark once they’re dead.” She giggled and tossed the book at him. “Come on, that was funny.”
A slight grin cracked his face and struck her dumb. The man was stunning. His face completely changed with the simple tilt of his lips. Could men be stunning? “You tell me one.”
Amos combed through the pages, absorbed in the assorted jokes, and she took her time to soak him in. His head popped up, and she jolted out of her daze. “Found one. What is the best way to keep a man’s love?”
Tamar shrugged. “How?”
“Not to return it,” Amos answered. “That actually is true.”
“I can’t believe that. Love should be equal on both sides. What do you think?”
“Tamar, you have given me more entertainment than I have had in a long time.”
“Then you, sir, should get out more.”
“How can I repay you?
She broke the spell by stepping back into reality and away from him. A few inches closer and she would have been in his arms, against that broad chest, and … Tamar touched her lips. She could have kissed him. Her first kiss ever. Stop this madness, her mind warned. He’s a strange man who popped up in the dead of night to craft a love note to a woman who didn’t want him. Tamar caught sight of the concerned look on his face. “You fixed Old Bertha. That is enough. We have to run copies in the morning but I can start on this tonight. Your ad will be printed. I’m sure Ada will be pleased to hear from you. But, sir, know that this is no way to court a woman, even the ones on the farm.”
He grinned, and the glow of his smile warmed her across the room. “You have a lot of opinions. And I’m not courting her. I already have her intense interest.”
“If you desire to keep her intense interest, take Dear Priscilla’s advice. Write her a letter.”
“When I want your advice about wooing, I will ask.”
“I’m sure you don’t need any advice. You probably have a trail of broken hearts and lifted skirts. You can always expand your repertoire.”
“Pray tell me. How do you woo a woman?”
“Letters,” she blurted out. “The want ads are no place to woo a woman. But a finely crafted letter can create worlds that only exist between lovers. They can open hearts and if necessary part locked knees.”
He grinned. “And I’d write about … ?” He trailed off. “My life is hardly noteworthy.”
“In the beginning write about things that draw you to her. Don’t frighten her.” Tamar tossed her hands up in frustration. “I am no good with this. You should write a letter to our Dear Priscilla column.”
“Is there a real Priscilla?”
She nodded. “My dear sister who just married a dolt wrote it. Now I am responsible until I find a new columnist since her husband wants her to focus solely on her house and child rearing.”
“You don’t think highly of your brother-in-law.”
“Men who need to boast and brag about every minuscule accomplishment are making up for another shortfall on their lives.” Her gaze dropped. “I’m sure you don’t have that issue.
“The need to compensate for lack? Not quite. You’ve been a witness to that.”
She moved away quickly, breaking eye contact with him. “My brother-in-law is in cahoots with every politician and ne’er do well. He hates what I do.”
“Publishing a paper?”
“Telling the truth and shaming the devils that take advantage of others.” Her eyes burned bright, thinking of the change her words had created. “We have to do better, and I ask people to do that.”
“How can I repay you for your graciousness and generosity?”
“I want to know the story from your lips.”
“There’s not much to tell. A man who tread down the wrong path with little hope of redemption.”
“If you believe in that,” she thumped on the cracked, dusty, and worn Bible, “you must know that there is grace and hope for every sinner who falls short.”
“You say that like you don’t believe.”
“I haven’t had much to sin for and I never witness miracles. I believe what I know and what I see. Things that can be proven. I didn’t believe in you, and now I do because proof is in the flesh before me.”
“And you want more?”
“Always. You have a story that should be told.”
“There’s no story.”
“I will pay you.”
“I reckon not. I’m not for sale. Create a new story for me. Everyone else has added to my infamy.”
“Fame and infamy, bah. I’m trying to find out why the most famous robber wants to be anonymous and unknown, hiding behind fables and lore.”
“The same reason you do. It’s easier to pretend and be someone else.”
“I am not hiding.”
“You write. You publish. Do you ever travel? See the world?”
“It’s hard to do those things when you have a paper—and a duty to the race.”
“That doesn’t preclude you from fun and excitement. Or to be alone just you and your love with the stars and bluebells as your blanket and mat.”
“You make life on the run sound romantic. It’s easy to forget you are a criminal.”
“That’s not the sum of who I am. I can shed that identity if I desire.”
“Why do you keep it?”
“One day, I will tell you as Tamar, the woman, not the T. Freeman, the publisher of the Advocate.”
“And who will tell me this story? Deadwood Dick or Amos?”
“Amos. A story for a story.”
She sat at the desk, a pencil tucked in her grip and poised above a stack of paper. She was ready to scratch his truths and lies into a permanent state. “Start. You go first.”
“I need a question to prompt me.”
“Who is Ada?”
“You still don’t believe me.”
“I know she’s not your affianced or your mama. Your face—you try to make it a mask, but mischief plays at your lips.”
He rubbed his lower lip. Her eyes followed the movement, taking in the curve of his large hand and the plush contours of his mouth. Never had a man’s lips or hands fascinated her so. She ached to feel the weight of his hands and mouth on her at the same time, the pressure of them guiding her to act out the wanton, traitorous desires coursing through her.
“Things get blurry when I’m with you,” Amos said. “I’ve told a lot of lies, and a woman like you makes a man like me lose the breadcrumb trail he left to remember his lies.”
“You cannot try your flirtations on a journalist. I will dig out the veracity and sincerity of any statement.”
“You are more than a writer and fact checker. Don’t be humble about your sublime beauty.”
Sublime? She jotted that on her paper as a reminder to check that word. It sounded bad, but the look on his face told her it wasn’t. “Mighty words for a woman you just met.” His brawn matched or exceeded his bra
in. She felt a push to know more from this stranger.
“When you get to be my age, you know when to say those things at the right moment. The spirit moved me to say it.”
“Your spirit should stop being fresh.”
“For God’s sake, hold your tongue and let me love.” He grinned as she stared at him, trying to decipher the mountain of man in her presence. “Donne. Infatuation,” he answered. “He’s not a popular poet, but I enjoy his words.”
She made another note on the sheet and hoped her sister had a volume of this Donne. “I don’t read poetry. It seems superfluous in this world.”
“It makes life beautiful; a few words distill a lot of truths.”
“Truth is, it’s early to declare your love for a woman you’ve encountered in the span of a day.”
“I know your work. I’ve heard about you. If I were a good man with an honest life and a solid, honest job, I would have proposed when I walked in here.”
“Like every other suitor, you would have been rejected. I don’t entertain foolishness, requests for my submission, orders for my money, or demands that I give up my life and submerge into theirs.”
“I would never ask that.” He glanced out of the window and checked the time on his pocket watch. “It’s getting late. How are you getting home?”
“With these,” she said, kicking up her feet. “I stay close, and I walk between home and this office all the time.”
“You won’t tonight. When you are ready to leave, permit me to walk you home.”
She bristled and set cold eyes and firm voice on him. “And the other nights you aren’t here, what shall I do? Leave me in peace and do whatever it is that outlaws do at this time of night.”
He gave up no hints, just a soft smile that hinted at the pleasure he felt. “I would like to walk you home.” His voice was steadfast, his promise to protect her in the moment assured. A frisson of heat wound through her circulatory system at a rapid, dizzying speed.
“This is home for the moment.” She turned to face him, the joy and tension etched on her face hidden in the shadows. “The Klan has threatened my house and office.”
His jaw clenched so tightly she was afraid he would pop it out of place. “They will leave you alone, I promise.”
“I don’t take the promises of any man seriously,” Tamar said. “The police have said the same thing, and nothing has changed. The threats still come.”
The words died on his lips when the glass shattered. “Down,” he yelled, tackling her and tucking her into his embrace.
“It’s just another rock.”
But it wasn’t. Bullets whizzed through the air, lodging into the solid surfaces around them. “Those are not rocks.”
“I am an American citizen under siege. I need my gun.”
“No, stay still.” He clamped his arms tightly around her waist, molding against his chest. “And quiet.”
After the last round of bullets, horses galloped away, and the air of quiet descended upon them. Their breaths echoed in her ears, her heart racing as if it would never stop. The weight of it all came crashing down on her. “I could have died,” she said, choking back a sob.
“You wouldn’t have, Tamar. I promise you that.” He stroked her hair and pressed her deeper into his embrace. He whispered words of comfort, and she listened to the deep, rumbling vibrations in his chest. Never had she been this vulnerable since her parents were alive and were there to make her pains and slights vanish. Never had she felt so comfortable and protected. She didn’t want this cocooning solace around Amos to end.
Heavy footsteps charged up to the door and kicked it open. A familiar masculine voice broke through the murmurs. “Miss Freeman?”
“I’m right here,” she answered, scrambling out of Amos’s arms and confronting Bart, the lovelorn Pinkerton agent. “I’m fine, I promise. Tonight I was lucky.”
Bart squinted, his eyes taking stock of the entire office now in disarray. “Are you sure? They lit up this place. Next time, it won’t be a rock or bullets. It will be fire. Maybe a noose.”
“She’s fine.” Amos rose from the floor and appeared at her side. “There’s no need to scare the lady, sir.”
The two men eyed each other warily, assessing each other with respect and suspicion. “And you are?” Bart asked.
“He’s a friend.”
“I’ve never seen you around these parts.”
“I’m visiting. On my way to see my lady, Ada. It was late, and I decided to stop in to see my friend. I’m glad I did. Are you the law?”
“No, this man is a Pinkerton agent who came to see me yesterday. Before then, I never knew a kind Pinkerton existed—or that so many women named Ada existed.” Her hands shook as she reached for the door. “I’m going to get the—”
“You’re not going anywhere alone at this time of night. I will escort—”
“I can walk across the street.” Tamar froze, a flash of fear washing across her entire body. Amos followed her gaze to the empty desk, stacked with science books and scribbled notes. “Oh my god. Delilah. She was supposed to be here tonight with me, but I left her.”
“She’s safe and sound. I have eyes on your place. As a matter of fact, Mr. Davis there,” Bart said, nodding at the man on the door. “I believe you know him from your church. He can walk you home.”
Tamar hesitated, her eyes sweeping the chaos of her once-orderly operation. The acrid and sour smell of gunpowder and the charcoal scent of gun smoke filled her lungs. Glass shards littered the floor and were now being ground into dust and fine particles by the men trampling through her offices. A muscle flicked angrily in her jaw when she saw the bullet holes puckering the walls. Her beloved printer had taken a hit or two from the barrage of gunfire. She stepped forward to get a closer look, and Bart intercepted her, his hand softly cuffing her arm.
“But this has to get cleaned up. I have to make this right,” she said, a softness in her voice.
Bart tilted his brow, looking at her with uncertainty and sympathy. “I know, but you’re shaken up. I, along with your friend here, will take care of it. Trust us.”
Amos nodded in agreement. “Tamar, go. I will handle this for you. You can trust me.”
“You can trust us,” Bart countered, glaring at the other man. He released her and signaled to his man Davis to escort her home.
Tamar walked to the door and pirouetted back to face them. “Will I see you again?” she asked, staring directly at Amos. “I should properly thank you for saving me tonight.”
Amos’s expression stilled and grew serious. “Yes, ma’am, I will be calling on you very soon. You still have to get my story,” he said before she walked out of the gun smoke and damaged office. “I promise.”
• • •
After Tamar left, Amos stared at the door for the longest time, unsure what he’d just agreed to.
He turned to face Bart Quarles, who motioned for him to follow into the darker recesses of the office. Like a good employee, Amos followed. “You’re a helluva man to catch up to, boss.” He extended his hand to the large man standing at the edge of the office.
Bart raised his fist and clocked Amos with all his might. The blow landed square on his jaw. Amos stumbled a bit. His first reaction was to charge and hammer Bart. But he knew better. He deserved this hit for remaining mute for two months and not checking in with Bart, and taking a look at the man, he resisted his urge to battle him with fisticuffs. Bart still had a good fifty pounds of muscle and another four inches in height.
Amos tilted his head and took in the sight before him. “Hello works better than fists.”
Bart shook his hand and grimaced. “Damn you, Tanner, and your iron jaw. It’s been five months since I’ve seen hide or tail of you. I thought they turned you.”
Amos shook his head. Never. Outlaws violated every instinct and moral he had. The few he did respect were doing these jobs for reasons bigger than a score. “I sent messages when I could. You received word when necessary.�
��
“Not often enough,” Bart said, pulling out a cigar and lighting it. Amos noted the move, one of Bart’s nervous habits. His handler didn’t show concern in the expected ways. “You pulled a major disappearing act and almost put everything in jeopardy.”
“I’m still your man, boss.”
Bart frowned, puffing smoke rings into the air. “The other two men I had said that. Then they turned and I had to put bullets in them.”
“I’m not them.”
“I know, I know.” Bart yanked the cigar from his mouth and scowled. “And those ads in the Advocate—brilliant way to communicate. You write like a man who went to Lincoln or Howard,” he said before pulling a long drag on the cigar.
Amos ducked his head. He was self-taught and read like a demon. He always had a book in his saddlebag. Now it was Treasure Island by Stevenson he’d lifted off a robbery and once finished he fully intended to return it with the rest of the stash he received. It wasn’t his; he had no rights to keep it.
“You almost tipped off the lady publisher. Two men declaring their intentions for an Ada of Topeka.”
“Shit, I don’t care if I made the Almighty angry. I had to reach out again. They don’t take too kindly to traitors or lawmen.”
And I am both, Amos thought. The price of his double-dealing would be high. Death and torture. He had seen the evidence of spies in the military and as a lawman, prayed over their bodies, and put them into unmarked graves. He wasn’t going to die like that. “They don’t suspect anything.”
“Don’t go see a lady in this shape.” Bart tossed him a satchel. Amos caught the satchel and looked inside. He needed to clean up. He looked up to see his boss smiling at him. In all his years of working undercover with him, Amos couldn’t remember one time where his boss smiled.
The stoic lawman tilted his head. “What do you have for me?”
“My last operative report for the agency. The set-up is ready for you.”
“They’re still planning to rob the train—”
“At noon next Tuesday. I suspect that you’ll be on the train.”
“Do they suspect—”
Amos shook his head. “They suspect nothing. They know I went to visit a lady friend, and they assume I will be there all night and through the mid-day.”
Loving the Lawmen Page 62
