by Lisa Bingham
It couldn’t be his Lydia.
Yet, there was no reason to think that it wasn’t.
But bank robbery? Lydia?
Even her name seemed to decry such a charge.
Lydia Angelica Tomlinson.
Her middle name suited her. Especially on those days when she allowed her hair to curl around her face in those wispy ringlets.
Gideon surged to his feet and strode to the window overlooking the boardwalk. Once again, the street was eerily quiet and his nape prickled. Growling to himself, he rubbed the back of his neck with his palm.
“Problems, boss?”
He glanced up to find Dobbs clattering down the staircase that led to the upper rooms where the Pinkertons slept.
“You’re looking like a dandy. What’s the occasion?”
Dobbs wore his Sunday-go-to-meeting suit, tie and bowler hat. Even his mustache had been freshly trimmed. But at Gideon’s query, some of his enthusiasm seemed to dim.
“Errands.” He added quickly, “It’s my afternoon off.”
“I’m aware of that. You simply seem spiffed-up for...errands.”
Gideon knew full well that the man had probably arranged to meet one of the women, even though every man in Bachelor Bottoms had been forbidden to do so. Save a funeral, there was no other reason that would warrant such grooming.
As leader of the Pinkertons, Gideon supposed that he should chide the man for breaking the rules—especially since the Pinkertons were supposed to be in charge of keeping the male inhabitants at arm’s length.
But even as he opened his mouth to lay down the law, Gideon didn’t have the heart to do it. The women would be gone soon—within a week, if he could possibly arrange it.
Gideon’s gaze returned to the window and the muddy street beyond. “Enjoy yourself, Dobbs. You might not have much time off once we start hauling the silver out of the valley.”
He could see Dobbs’s grinning reflection in the glass.
“Thank you, sir.”
The man dodged to the door, but hesitated before stepping outside. “I don’t know if this means anything, but I had a sudden thought about that man they sent from the Ogden office... Eddington?”
Gideon nodded.
Again, Dobbs seemed to choose his words before speaking. “I can’t stop thinking about him. He was too old for the territories, you know? And his tunic seemed a little short in the arms. But the thing I keep picturing are his boots...”
Gideon felt the prickling again. “What about his boots?”
“They were brown. Around here, the uniform calls for a blue jacket, black pants and black boots.” Dobbs touched a finger to the brim of his hat. “Have a good afternoon, sir.”
Then he stepped outside, closing the door behind him.
Gideon remained where he was for long moments, his mind chewing over the information Dobbs had imparted even as Gideon watched the man saunter down the boardwalk in the direction of the Dovecote. From the opposite side of the room, the hidden Wanted poster seemed to call him like a siren’s song, but he refused to pull it out one more time. He’d already studied every word—and had found the description of her crime too brief to be of any help.
Wanted!
Lydia Angelica Tomlinson, age twenty-three.
Bank Robbery and Cattle Rustling!
Miss Tomlinson is a known accomplice of the Tommy Gang and participated in the robbery of the Crescent City Bank, Chicago, Illinois.
Subject must be apprehended and turned over to the Territorial Marshall to claim the $2000 reward.
He still couldn’t wrap his head around the idea of Miss Prim-and-Proper Lydia Tomlinson robbing a bank. And the thought of her riding with the Tommy Gang—one of the most vicious groups of outlaws in the territories—didn’t sit right, either. Near as he could remember, the Tommy Gang had been apprehended nearly eleven years ago. That would have made Lydia about...twelve?
Gideon shook his head to rid it of such thoughts. Without a working telegraph, he had no way to gather more information on the subject.
No way except questioning the woman herself.
Yet, he still found himself hesitating in that regard. If this news had come to him a month ago—even a week—he would have locked the woman in one of the temporary cells, then started his interrogation. But today...
He kept remembering the vulnerability he’d witnessed in Lydia. He would bet his life on the fact that Eddington had been a stranger to her. And something that he’d said had frightened her to the core. If only Gideon had been close enough to hear the words.
He shook his head to rid it of the “if onlys” and reached for his hat.
Enough of this. It was high time he focused on his job and only his job. He’d get one of his men to cover the office for a few hours. Then Gideon would round up Miss Lydia Angelica Tomlinson and have a little chat.
Even as his determination swept through his muscles and willed him out of the door and onto the boardwalk, the sensation was followed by an answering trickle of dread.
Not because he might offend Lydia with the accusation.
But because he might discover that the charges were true.
* * *
Lydia waited until midafternoon to seek out Iona in the cook shack.
“How are we doing?” she murmured.
Iona drew her to the rear of the kitchen area where she had hidden their checklist under a pile of folded dish towels.
“We have twenty men sequestered in the barbershop. So far, all of them have agreed to help us with our protest—except Milton Plum, who is in charge of the cattle in the south pasture just beyond the Dovecote. He’ll only help us for twenty-four hours. After that time, he insists he has several cows ready to give birth within the next fortnight, and he daren’t leave them unattended.”
“Very kind of him to oblige us for as long as he can.”
“Emmarissa and Louise have nearly reached their capacity at the company store. They are fairly certain that they’ll be able to hold at least thirty men in a comfortable fashion, but they are requesting ice.”
“Ice?”
Iona giggled. “Apparently, they’ve been apprehending most of the gentlemen by means of a cast iron skillet.”
Lydia winced, then joined in on the laughter.
“As soon as we can spare a few women, I’ll send them onto the mountainside to fill some pails with snow.”
“Not all of their captives are so willing to join in our protest. Thankfully, the rest of the men overwhelmed them, so they are bound and gagged for the time being.”
“Bravo!”
“Mr. Creakle was captured early this morning outside Miners’ Hall. He kindly volunteered to help lure more men inside, so we have nearly fifty men who are confined to the Hall and the infirmary.” Iona flicked the paper with her fingertips. “All totaled, we have almost one hundred men who are off the streets and—either willingly or unwillingly—have become a part of our protest.”
Lydia’s breath seemed to leave her in a rush. One hundred men. They’d set that number as their goal, but frankly, none of them had ever believed they would attain it.
Unfortunately, following on the heels of that milestone was her greatest worry. “We don’t have much time. We’ve got to move straight on to the next phase of our plan.”
In order for that to work, Gideon Gault would have to be taken out of the equation. The man still had too much power in the community.
“Have any of the Pinkertons been rounded up during our efforts this morning?”
“It was unavoidable, I’m afraid. We have twelve. Two in the barbershop, four in the company store, and the rest in the Hall. As soon as Mr. Gault realizes they’re gone, he could raise the alarm and use some of the men from the mine to overwhelm us.” Iona’s features clouded. “The only reason we’re able to keep this
many locked up is because most of them are willing participants.”
“I know, I know. But every time I walked past the Pinkerton office, there was someone with him.” Lydia tried to think of a way to corner the man, alone. Unfortunately, with each scenario she concocted, she found herself thinking instead of the way that Gideon had walked her home, held her hand, kissed her knuckles...
“When have you arranged to meet Mr. Bottoms at his cottage?”
“Two o’clock.”
Lydia glanced at the fob watch pinned to her chest.
“That gives me less than an hour. Has Gideon come to the cook shack to eat at all?”
“No.”
“Then maybe he’ll—”
“Miss Tomlinson!”
The two women started guiltily when the object of their discussion appeared in the doorway.
Iona whipped the paper behind her back and Lydia stepped to the side to shield the older woman since the color had drained from Iona’s cheeks.
“Mr. Gault. How nice to see you. Have you come for something to eat?”
“No. Thank you. I wondered if I could have a word with you.”
“Of course.”
When she didn’t move, he added, “Alone.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. Shall we go to Mr. Batchwell’s private dining area?” Immediately, her brain scrambled to inventory the contents of the room at the end of the hall that was primarily reserved for the owners.
Gideon frowned, his gaze sweeping over the other women who were already beginning preparations for the next meal.
“No. I’d much rather walk, if you don’t mind.”
Her heart sank, knowing that there was no way she could overpower Gideon in the open. Nor could she bring the revolver that she’d hidden in a shopping basket.
Turning, she fiddled with the strings of her apron.
“Get someone to follow us,” she murmured for Iona’s ears alone before handing the protective garment to her friend.
Iona bit her lip, but nodded.
“Will I need a coat?” Lydia asked as she moved back toward Gideon.
“I don’t think so. It’s warm outside and there’s no breeze. We won’t be long.” He gestured to the hallway behind him that led to the private dining room as well as a side door. “If you don’t mind, we could head toward the river and walk along its banks. I haven’t checked the flood levels yet today.”
Briefly, Lydia wondered if he meant to push her into the river and thereby rid himself of her interfering ways once and for all. But she immediately pushed the preposterous thought away. After all, she wasn’t the one who had become an unwitting target.
Again, she shot a glance behind her. When she saw no sign of Iona, she prayed that the woman had gone to summon help. A long walk upon the secluded river bank might be the perfect place to capture Gideon Gault once and for all.
* * *
Gideon waited until they’d moved away from the buildings, beyond earshot, behind the stands of aspen and matted grass to the riverbank. Here, there was a measure of privacy—but even more importantly, a sense of wide, open spaces and fresh air and nature.
He wrestled against the sensation of doom that hung at the periphery of his senses. With all the dire news he’d received, his mind grappled with the effects of his heightened emotions. It was at times like this, when his heart pounded and the outside pressures began to build, that the past threatened to swamp him. The memories were there, the bottled-up emotions, the sense of frustration and desperation, the impression that there would never be enough clean water to wash away the things he’d witnessed in that Georgia prison.
Gideon swallowed, trying to push away the images, knowing that he couldn’t lose control. Not now. Not with her.
But his body and his mind could often prove traitors to his wishes. In times of stress, the things he’d witnessed, the overwhelming misery, were so much harder to push away.
“Gideon?”
Lydia regarded him curiously and he took deep breaths through his nose, focusing on her face. That sweet face with its halo of curls.
“Do you have a middle name?” he blurted.
“Yes. Angelica.”
The Wanted poster was true in that respect.
Gideon bent to scoop up a rock, then threw it toward the river. A part of him, ever the professional, noted that the river had risen another six inches. At this rate, it could overflow its banks within a day or two.
“Gideon?”
He turned to Lydia, a part of him resisting the words he needed to utter, the other, the ever-dedicated Pinkerton, insisting that the time had come.
Knowing that he couldn’t delay any longer, he unbuttoned his tunic—the Pinkerton blues—and removed the poster, still folded in quarters.
“I received this yesterday. It was brought here by the messenger from Ogden, along with the correspondence you received from your aunts.”
She regarded him curiously before reaching to take the heavy paper. Slowly, ever so slowly, she unfolded it—and in those brief moments, the ghosts of Andersonville pressed in on him again. Because Gideon knew that, whatever happened next, things could never be the same between them. Either she would despise him for believing her capable of such a crime.
Or he would discover that the claims were true.
As if sensing his turmoil, she looked up and Gideon did his best to remember that very instant when she gazed at him with such open confusion, and trust, and...and beauty. More than anything, he wanted to sear that image into his brain so that he could pull it out and look at it, again and again, like a tattered cabinet photograph, whenever the darkness threatened to consume him.
He watched the way her eyes scanned the illustration—little more than a few ink strokes to indicate long hair, two eyes, a nose, a mouth. It could have been a sketch drawn by a child, it had been rendered so vaguely. Then he watched her gaze drop to the heading, then scan the rest of the text.
He waited, sure that she would deny it—that she would rail at him for believing such a slanderous bit of fiction.
Instead, the color bled from her features and her hands began to tremble, causing the poster to crackle like autumn leaves being driven by the wind. Then, she looked up at him. For the first time, he found no spark of passion in her eyes. Rather, they filled with an infinite sadness and a hopelessness that he had seen in his own gaze all too often.
Then she turned and began striding back toward the cook shack.
“Lydia!”
She didn’t pause, so he was forced to quicken his pace until he could snag her elbow.
“Aren’t you going to say something in your defense?”
“Why? It’s apparent that you’ve already made up your mind, so what could I possibly say to alter your opinion?”
“I brought you here so that you could explain.”
“Explain what? It’s my name on that poster. My face.”
He could feel her trembling violently against him. But rather than increasing her guilt, it merely seemed to underscore her innocence.
“That face could belong to half the women in the Dovecote.”
She wrenched free from his grasp, but instead of dodging toward the safety of the cook shack, she wrapped her arms around her waist.
“But none of their names are attached to the charges. Only mine.”
Gideon scrambled for a logical answer—other than the most obvious one. For days now, his instincts had been poking at him, and images darted through his head like a swarm of angry bees.
The too-quiet streets.
A measles epidemic.
A Pinkerton who wasn’t a Pinkerton.
This time, when he took Lydia by the elbows, she didn’t back away. He was careful to hold her gently, so she would know that, if she wanted her freedom, she need only step back.
“Why would someone do this to you?” Gideon asked softly.
She blinked, obviously taken aback that he’d decided to champion her innocence. But as he looked down into those blue, blue eyes, eyes that truly were the mirror to her soul, he found no guile. If anything, she seemed to experience the same turmoil that raged through his own soul.
Then she looked away before he could see too much.
“Lydia? Do you know who would accuse you this way?”
Her lips pressed together and she remained mulishly silent.
“You need to tell me so I can help you.”
She offered a short burst of mirthless laughter. “Why would you do such a thing? You’re a Pinkerton.”
“I’m not territorial law, Lydia.”
She seemed to hesitate, then shook her head. “Don’t try to help me, Gideon. It’s a useless endeavor.”
“Why?”
He saw her lower lip tremble slightly before she bit it. Tears gathered at her lower lashes, but she blinked them away.
“Because the charges are true.”
Chapter Twelve
Lydia didn’t bother to turn around as the cell door clanged shut behind her. She had no intention of explaining herself to Gideon Gault—or to anyone else. Nothing she offered could rectify the situation. The past had caught up to her as she’d feared that it would someday. Quite clearly, promises had been broken and she would be the one to pay.
“Lydia...”
She could feel Gideon looking at her from the other side of the bars. Somewhere, beyond him, she heard the shifting of the jail’s only other occupant, a man apprehended for the murder of Jenny Reichmann, the mother of Willow’s and Charles’s adopted children.
Gideon seemed to become aware of the man as well, because he cleared his throat.
“I’ll come back later and we’ll talk.”
Lydia remained with her back to him, knowing that she couldn’t look at him—couldn’t see the confusion and...betrayal in his eyes—without breaking down.
