Another man came out of the building and took over for the dark haired cowboy who twisted around and started toward Carianne and her captor, his long strides pounding the dusty street. She squinted against the sun as her memory stirred.
It was him. Rhyan Cason. She’d never met him, but had seen his photograph in countless magazines and newspapers. He was the talk of social gatherings back east and a favorite subject of all the gossip rags from Boston to Washington. Though his ranch lay somewhere near this town, she was surprised to find him here. Most cattle barons never even visited their ranches.
“Better stop there, boss. I have this woman.” The gunman’s threat blasted in Carianne’s ear, and she sensed his heightened tension. He feared Rhyan Cason.
“Let her go, Welford.” Mr. Cason kept coming, his long legs covering the distance fast.
Carianne sucked in a breath. Those photographs were a pale reflection of the man in the flesh. Tall and lean, his tousled hair shone as black and glossy as a raven’s wing. He was clean shaven, of course. It would be a pure shame to cover the perfect lines of his face. Everyone said he was the best looking man west of the Mississippi, but they were wrong. He was the best looking east or west.
“I’ll shoot. I mean it.” Welford jerked her attention back to her predicament. He stepped backward, pulling her with him, and ramming the pistol hard enough to send pain shooting from her neck to her temple. Mr. Cason loomed before her. She scrunched her eyes closed, expecting to fall into the arms of Jesus the next moment.
Her captor was snatched from her so abruptly she stumbled. The crack of bone on bone rent the air, and she opened her eyes in time to see the gun fly off in one direction, and Welford hit the ground in the other.
He scooted sideways like a crab. “Why’d you do that, boss? I wasn’t gonna hurt the little lady, and we didn’t intend to kill that tramp. He ain’t dead, is he? You got him to the doc’s on time?”
Mr. Cason grabbed him by the shirt, hauling him up. “That was for scaring the young lady. This is for the tramp.” He slammed Welford with an uppercut that laid the man out flat.
Welford propped up on one elbow and swiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “We were just following orders. You said you wanted us to skeer off the trouble-makers. When word gets out about this, they’ll all be skeered.”
“My orders didn’t include hanging a man, you idiot. Where are Hawk and Falcon?”
“They got away.”
“Then you go find them, and all of you get back to work.”
The sheriff brandished his rifle. “You can’t let him get away.”
Mr. Cason grabbed the rifle’s barrel, forcing it down. “Hold on, Jeb. If the fellow dies I’ll bring them in.”
“He ain’t gonna die.” Welford started to retrieve his gun, then apparently thought better of it and stalked off.
With a wag of the head, the sheriff lowered the rifle to his side. “There’s a deputy U. S. marshal waitin’ to talk to us.”
“The marshal doesn’t have any authority over you or any jurisdiction over this town.”
“That ain’t what he says.”
“I’ll talk to the marshal later.” Mr. Cason’s tone indicated he considered the sheriff in the same category as a schoolboy who needed placating. “Right now I have more important things to do.”
The sheriff found something he could do and flapped his hat at the gawkers gathered around, scattering them like a flock of birds.
Realizing she ought to be on her way too, Carianne reset her hat and smoothed out the folds of her skirt. She glanced up to see Mr. Cason headed in her direction and froze. Her hands flew up to check her hat and pat her hair with fingers searching for stray tendrils to be put back in place.
He stopped before her and their gazes locked. For the life of her, she couldn’t pull her attention away from his dark, mesmerizing eyes. They weren’t solid brown but radiated from the pupils in varying hues—molten chocolate, glistening coal, soft sable—made more sensual by thick, black lashes.
A smile crossed his handsome face, and those provocative eyes intensified. Deeper. Darker. Dangerous to her peace of mind.
He pressed his fingers ever so gently on the place where the pistol barrel had assaulted her, and his gaze fell to her mouth. The look and the touch set a nerve aflutter in her stomach.
She moistened her lips, while heat flooded her cheeks that had nothing to do with the unusually warm spring day.
“Hope that scum-bucket didn’t hurt you, Miss—”
She stared as one of his brows rose in a question. He was asking. What? “No…I’m not hurt. It’s Miss…Carianne. That is, Barlow. Carianne Barlow.” She rushed on to cover her blunder. “You’re Rhyan Cason, aren’t you?”
The other brow hiked. “Have we met?”
“No, I read about you in the newspapers.”
He smiled, revealing even white teeth and double laugh lines. “I hope you don’t believe everything you read.”
“Most of what I’ve read was…complimentary.”
A dimple deepened the crease in his right cheek. “And a lot was uncomplimentary, but we won’t talk about that.” He turned his head in the direction of the street, and she caught a glimpse of his profile. His nose was straight, not too long or too short. Just right.
A nerve in his jaw twitched. “I’ll bet you intended to go to the boardinghouse for lunch like your fellow passengers. You did get off the train, didn’t you? You can’t be from around here. I’d have noticed.”
“I did get off the train, but I decided to forego lunch. I’m on a scouting trip to find a location for a western cultural center, and thought I’d take a look at your town.”
“A cultural center? Here?”
She had to admit the whole idea was far-fetched, but she wouldn’t admit it to him. “Yes…a library, theater, lecture hall, opera house. There’s hardly anything west of the Mississippi, and it’s about time, don’t you think?”
His grimace told her what he thought of that. “I’ve got to admit the west is a little bereft of culture.” The frown gave way to a wide grin. “Just hope you’re not looking for a money making venture.”
“Your town is centrally located.”
“Yeah, it’s as far from civilization in one direction as from the other.” His low chuckle tickled her ear as he laid his arm across her shoulder and pointed her in the direction of the sidewalk. “But let me show you the town. There’s not much of it.”
She walked out of his embrace. He was called the Casanova Cowboy, a womanizer, in the scandal rags, and while she didn’t believe half the stories, she had no intention of helping him live up to that reputation. “I don’t want to be a bother. The sheriff seemed to think you should talk to the marshal.”
“The sheriff’s just in a dither. He’s never had to deal with attempted murder. His usual duties are no more demanding than sauntering back and forth from the saloon to the boardinghouse, and putting down the occasional brawl or cat fight—usually with real cats.”
His light-hearted humor put her at ease. “Perhaps you’re right. I’m not sure the population would support a theater. How many people live here?”
“Counting my employees, about three hundred.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Now if you could use cattle for patrons, you’d be in business. Sollano has twenty thousand head alone.”
Their boots tapped in rhythm on the plank sidewalk. She’d read about his huge ranch and hoped to get a glimpse of the unusual ranch house before going back east. “I doubt your cattle would understand opera.”
“I assure you, Miss Barlow, the cows would appreciate opera as much as the people would.”
She laughed as she gazed down the street. Weathered wooden buildings lined both sides of the dirt road, a haze of dust rising up whenever a horse trotted past. Westerfield was like dozens of prairie towns she’d passed through during the past two days. So different from the paved streets of her Philadelphia neighborhood.
They
stopped at each store front, and Mr. Cason rolled off the history of each, punctuating his remarks with antidotes about their colorful owners. He had the reputation of being a gifted orator, and she understood why. Just talking about the town, he spoke with enough knowledge and poise to make her think he’d been practicing his whole life for this moment.
She’d read a couple of his speeches and admired how he called out the rich and powerful for their greed and chicanery. But that had gained him some enemies in high places.
They were half way down the other side of the street when he stopped. “The next door is the doctor’s office, and I need to see how that tramp’s doing.”
He lengthened his strides, and she sped up to match his steps. “How is it possible to survive a hanging?”
“Instead of using a hangman’s noose that would instantly break a man’s neck, they used a loose knot to slowly strangle the victim. It was a form of torture used in the range wars.”
“It sounds…brutal.”
He held the door open for her. “It is brutal, Miss Barlow, but a lot of brutality goes on everywhere. It’s just not as well hidden out here.”
A strange thing to say. She thought about it for several seconds before entering the building and glancing around the room.
This was like all doctors’ offices, holding that unpleasant scent of medicine, suffering, and fear. She hadn’t been in a doctor’s office since the train wreck that injured her and killed her mother—a crushing tragedy that changed her destiny in unexpected ways. God and her wealthy grandmother had opened doorways Carianne had never thought possible to pass through.
Mr. Cason came around her and touched her shoulder. He leaned in far closer than would have been proper back east. “This won’t take long. I promise to get you back to your train before it pulls out.” He stepped back and gave her another heart-flopping smile. “Don’t go anywhere.”
He turned on his boot heel and disappeared through the hallway.
She drew in a deep breath and stared at the dark hole that swallowed him. A stick of dynamite wouldn’t blast her from this spot.
***
A weight fell off Rhyan’s shoulders when the doctor assured him the man hanging from a cottonwood on Sollano would live. Rubbing the tension from his neck, he knew the responsibility was his. His men committed the crime on his property. Lynchings were unheard of in this area. Sure, when Grandpa had been the law of the land, a few marauding Indians had been horsewhipped, but none had been hanged. It was unthinkable.
How was he going to explain to that nosey marshal?
The tramp lay on a cot sleeping peacefully. Dr. Ulrich had given him laudanum and expected him to be fit to travel when he woke.
“I’ll be back later to settle up, Doc.” Rhyan turned to Colt Holliman who’d been helping the doctor. “You ready?”
“Since we’re going to stick around town a while longer, I think I’ll get a haircut.” Colt raked long, calloused fingers through his wheaten thatch before resettling his hat.
Glad his friend had somewhere to go, Rhyan slapped him on the back. “Fine with me. Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet.” He’d rather Colt leave by the back door, but that would call for an explanation.
Colt had no trouble turning female heads, and some women found his easy-going, unaffected manner charming. Rhyan didn’t have much time left with Miss Barlow and didn’t want to compete with Colt. A quick introduction was all he’d get.
She still stood in the spot Rhyan had left her. Dressed in a dark green traveling costume of fine wool accented with emerald satin, she could grace the cover of Harper’s Bazaar. Her perfectly coiffured hair under that silly hat was glossy dark brown, and her full, shapely lips waited to be kissed.
Not that there’d be time to work up to a kiss. She’d be leaving in a short while, and wouldn’t return. Westerfield didn’t fit her grandiose scheme. Which was just as well. He didn’t have time for a woman right now.
“Miss Barlow, I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine, Colt Holliman.”
She tilted her head toward Colt, and Rhyan went on to fill up the silence. “Miss Barlow is scouting out a town to open…a theater.” No need to elaborate for Colt’s sake. “This is the first town she’s looking at.”
Colt had swept off his hat and was grinning more widely than necessary. “Sure hope you don’t hold that scuff-up against us, ma’am.”
Miss Barlow had a habit of pausing a split second before she spoke. “I wouldn’t do that. You have a charming town.”
If there was one thing Westerfield wasn’t, it was charming.
Rhyan reached around her and opened the door. “Since the train’ll be pulling out soon, we’d better be going.” As soon as she turned, he applied a firm palm to the small of her back and glanced back to Colt. “I’ll meet you back here in a couple of hours.”
“Sure thing. Nice meeting you, ma’am.”
Carianne glanced up over her shoulder. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Holliman.”
Rhyan nudged her over the threshold.
He let her set the pace, and after a few steps, she asked, “Is the gentleman who was hanged going to be all right?”
“I wouldn’t call him a gentleman, but yes, he’ll be fine.”
“Why did your employees hang him?”
“He killed a steer.” That wasn’t a complete lie. A steer had been killed.
The corners of her mouth twitched. “Even I know this country is more civilized than that. Men are no longer hanged for stealing a cow.” She gave him a sly glance that challenged him.
Why not give her the truth? She’d be out of his life in a few minutes. “We’ve had some trouble on the ranch for the past few months. At first I thought it was the usual quarreling between my hands and the area farmers, but after my racehorse was stabbed, I’ve come to suspect someone’s waging a personal vendetta.”
Her face held a question, and he waved his hands to add strength to the story. “I’d just purchased the horse, a big thoroughbred over eighteen hands high.”
“Who would stab a horse? Maybe it was…an accident.”
He felt his hackles rise at that suggestion. “It was hardly an accident, Miss Barlow. A typewritten note was stuck in the knife.”
Her dark brows rose. “What did the note say?”
“Happy racing.” His blood boiled just thinking about it. “The stab wasn’t deep, but the horse won’t recover until after the spring festival races.”
“You have reason to be concerned, Mr. Cason. It sounds sinister.”
“I took it seriously enough to hire a couple of gunslingers to patrol the grounds, but they must have misunderstood my orders. They’re the ones responsible for the lynching.”
She stopped and clamped a firm hand to his forearm. “You should find out who’s behind all this before someone really dies.”
As if he wasn’t already trying to hunt down the polecat. She wouldn’t have known that though, and real concern showed in her eyes. Her gaze fell to where she touched him, and she withdrew her hand as if suddenly aware the gesture was too forward. A shy grin touched her lips, and she continued walking.
For some reason, he wanted to explain further. “I’ve brought in detectives, but I couldn’t get Pinkertons. You’ll never guess why.”
She didn’t hesitate. “They’re working for your enemy.”
Surprise made him stop in his tracks and give her a searching glance. She understood. Everyone else tried to convince him he imagined the whole thing, that ordinary rustlers killed those cows and left them to rot where they lay. Bored cowboys cut the fences and irate farmers stirred up trouble, they said. Even Colt who was closer than Rhyan’s own brother thought it was nothing more than pranks. Yet this smartly dressed eastern woman with a perpetual smile and wide, innocent eyes was the first person besides him who saw something sinister.
“That’s right. It had to be a conflict of interest.” He shrugged. “I suppose I was bound to rub someone the wrong way
. But whoever it is, he’s got to be mighty riled and rich to hire Pinkertons to investigate me.”
“Or someone in the government.”
Yeah, she understood. Maybe he shouldn’t be confiding in a total stranger, not that any of this was a secret. And she’d soon be on the train going west.
It wouldn’t hurt to change the subject, though. “What brought you on this quest to establish a culture center?”
She hesitated a long moment as if searching for an answer that wouldn’t reveal too much. “My grandmother was a visionary, Mr. Cason. She believed all people should have access to art, music, literature. Since she left me with an inheritance, I feel obligated to carry out her wishes.”
“But why should it be out west?”
She smiled. “I believe the inspiration came from God. Don’t you often feel God urging you to do something entirely inexplicable?”
“Not hardly. I’m a Darwinist.”
He wished he could lasso that remark as soon as it slipped out. Normally he enjoyed challenging religious people. She was religious and educated enough to know who Darwin was, but he didn’t like the way her forehead creased into a scowl. He braced for an argument.
An uncomfortable silence fell between them. Then she gazed at him from under her lashes. “How did you become a lobbyist?”
The question caught him off-guard. He took it as a reprieve, and maybe a way to get back in her good graces after admitting he was a heathen.
Most considered lobbyists in the same category as swindlers, bribers, and coyotes, but there were noble exceptions. “Standing Bear, the Ponca chief, was being tried in Omaha for leaving his reservation. I joined his supporters. He not only won the case, but Indians were finally recognized as human beings. I got into lobbying because I saw the importance of taking a stand, and that took me all the way to Washington.”
“It takes courage to stand up for what’s right, but…it takes passion to make a difference.”
The heightened color in her cheeks made him wonder if she was still talking about Standing Bear. “Yeah, it takes a lot of passion.”
The depot loomed before them, and passengers were already boarding. A couple of men ran past them, leaving a strong scent of whiskey in their wake.
The Annex Mail-Order Brides: Preque (Intrigue Under Western Skies Book 0) Page 33
