“No. No safe sides. I love you, Mrs. Murray, and I want you to know it today and tomorrow, and I should have told you yesterday, too.”
“Well, as long as we aren’t playing it safe, I might as well tell you that I love you too.”
“And if we were playing it safe, what would you say?”
She seemed to consider the question. “That I liked you reasonably well enough.”
“Then I’m glad we’re not playing it safe because I think that being liked sounds absolutely dreadful.” He kissed her and then held her tight against his chest, grateful that he had the opportunity to share every day of the rest of his life with this amazing woman.
***
Peter came home tired out from rebuilding roofs, finding cows that had wandered off, and replacing a broken window pane. Dealing with the cow had reminded him about Mrs. Obregon’s chicken, and he asked Marshall to be sure to do something about it.
“I’ll do my best,” Marshall said with a grin, and Peter shook his head. Yes, the chicken wasn’t their first priority, but Mrs. Obregon was a member of their community, and she deserved their help just the same as anyone.
When the Mounties arrived back in town and walked into their office, Peter was surprised to find a prisoner being held in the cell, and men from town standing guard over him.
“What’s going on?” Peter asked.
“These men have detained me overnight, and they aren’t even officers of the law,” the man in the cell sputtered and fumed.
Peter looked around. “Who would like to explain?”
“Well, Commander, it’s like this.” Everett Haskell cleared his throat. “It was Mrs. Bert, you see.”
Bert immediately straightened. “What happened to my wife?”
“Well, it seems a man from her past, this man, showed up on her doorstep.”
“Is she all right?”
“She’s fine,” Everett reassured him. “In fact, I’d say she’s quite all right indeed. She dispatched this man with a frying pan.”
Peter couldn’t help the grin that crossed his face. He could just imagine Madelyn doing that very thing.
“May I be excused, sir?” Bert asked. “I need to get home.”
“Of course.” Bert was out the door almost before Peter had said the words.
“Then what happened?” Peter asked. He glanced around. “On second thought, let’s step outside where the prisoner isn’t in earshot. I’ll see to his side of the story later. Andrew?”
“I’ll keep watch,” Andrew said, and Peter and Marshall led the townspeople outside. Before he closed the door, Everett congratulated Andrew on having such a kind wife—Ida had stayed with Madelyn after the ordeal.
“All right, one thing at a time,” Peter said, and had the men walk him through it step by step.
“You have the strangest friends,” he said to Callie when he returned and gathered her up in his arms.
“I do?”
“Yes. I have nothing but admiration for Madelyn conking that fellow over the head with her frying pan the way she did, but all that talk about butter and lard?”
Callie laughed. “You have to show her some understanding, Peter. She was frightened out of her mind.”
“I do understand. I just . . . I don’t know. I’m too tired to think.”
“Well, come sit down. I heard you were back and heated up some soup.”
He grinned as they walked over to the table. “This, my dear woman, is one of the many reasons why I love you.”
Chapter Ten
Callie woke up with a start, her heart pounding. She tried to control her gasps, but her terror was so real, she almost felt like a trapped animal. Peter sat up immediately and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in tight.
“It’s all right,” he soothed. “It was a bad dream, that’s all.”
She listened to his heartbeat and tried to match her breath to his slow and steady cadence. At last she was able to speak.
“It was horrible,” she said. “The train robbers came, and they shot everyone, and there was screaming and so much blood . . .”
“That is a bad dream.” Peter held her closer. “I’m so sorry you had to experience that.”
She pulled back enough to look him in the eyes. “Have you heard anything more about the robbers?” He’d been keeping her abreast of every step in the investigation, and that had brought her some comfort, but this dream . . . it had been so real. Her hands were still shaking.
“I’ve received telegrams from the other towns saying that everything’s fine,” Peter told her. “I think the blizzard may have chased the men off.”
“Or they hunkered down somewhere,” Callie replied. She clung to the front of Peter’s shirt, hating how weak she felt, how helpless. He eased her back on the bed and they lay there together, his arms warm and strong.
“I can’t promise you a perfect world,” he said, echoing something he’d told her before. “I can only promise you I’ll do my very best in it for you.”
“I know.” She gripped his shirt a little tighter. “I just wish that Miss Hazel was a matchmaker for bankers or lawyers or store clerks. Then I’d be married to a nice, boring man who never got himself into any danger at all.”
“Except for bank robberies or store robberies . . .”
“Oh, hush. Is there really nowhere that’s safe anymore?”
“I’m sorry to say, not really. But there are more good men than evil ones, and as long as that remains true, the balance will be as it should be. Now, let’s try to get some sleep. Think about something pleasant. What are you taking to Colleen’s dinner party tonight?”
“I thought I’d make a yellow cake with chocolate frosting.”
“That sounds good. Do you know what the other wives are making?”
“We’ve talked about it a little bit.”
As they turned their conversation to a much safer topic, Callie found herself relaxing, and soon, she was dozing off again in her husband’s arms. If only he could protect her in her sleep the way he did while she was awake.
***
“That was the most awkward dinner party I’ve ever attended,” Peter said as they entered their cabin. “What was going on between Marshall and Colleen, anyway?”
“I’m really not at liberty to say,” Callie said. She couldn’t hide her smile, though. She’d been made privy to certain things in Colleen and Marshall’s relationship, and she’d shown Marshall her opinion of his behavior by giving him the smallest possible slice of her cake that she could. She would rather have given him a piece of her mind, but that wouldn’t have been appropriate at all.
“Well, I’ll try not to pry, then.” Peter took her hand in his. “And how are you? You seemed a little troubled tonight.”
“Still thinking about that dream. I’ve tried to put it out of my mind, but it refuses to go away. It’s like a specter hanging over me.”
“Have you ever had a dream like this before?” Peter asked.
She thought back. “I did have a nightmare not long before my mother died. I dreamed that she’d gone somewhere and I couldn’t find her.” A chill raced down her arms. “You don’t think that was a premonition, do you? Because that might mean that this is a premonition too.”
“I don’t know what to think,” Peter told her. He guided her over to the rocking chair by the fire and pulled her new boots from her feet, then stirred the fire with a poker to encourage the blaze. As the new kindling took, she wiggled her toes, forcing herself to stay calm. She didn’t have second sight or anything like it—the dream about her mother was a coincidence, and this one would turn out to be nothing at all.
“The next time we hear about a robbery, it will be miles away,” he assured her. She leaned into his kiss and decided that it was far better to be trusting than to be fearful. It just might take a little practice.
***
The next morning, a train left from the silver mine and would be working its way through White Fox. Peter received th
e news with a calm nod, but his stomach was roiling. He hadn’t gotten any updates as to the location of the robbers, so he had no idea whether he should be on alert. He thought about Callie’s dream and the way her eyes had been filled with fear. What if there was something to that? But where was the evidence?
When a rider came galloping in to tell them that a dam had broken from the pressure of melting snow, and Harold Benning’s place was in danger, Peter pushed his thoughts about the train to the background and told his men to mount up. Andrew had just come from the train station—his wife’s brother had been in town for a visit, but was now leaving. Andrew didn’t report seeing anything unusual at the station, and the men took off for Harold’s place as quickly as their horses could move.
They were nearly to Harold’s when Peter couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling any longer. Something was wrong, and while he hated to seem wishy-washy, he had to call for a change of plans. “I’m sorry to do this, men, but I’m not going to feel right if we don’t check on that train. Marshall, Andrew, head back. Bert and I will ride on and help Harold.”
“Good call,” Andrew said. “I haven’t felt right about things either.” He and Marshall spurred their horses and headed back the way they’d come, and Peter nodded to Bert.
“I’d rather be safe than sorry,” he said.
“Agreed. And if it turns out to be nothing, well, Andrew’s horse got a little extra exercise. That thing’s been looking a little paunchy lately.” Bert flicked his reins, and they headed toward Harold’s.
The whole time they worked stacking logs and branches and trying to create a safer path for the water, Peter’s thoughts kept going to the train. If he’d sent his men into danger, and he wasn’t there . . . he could just as easily have gone to check on the train himself. But no—he had to stop thinking about it. He’d made a split-second decision, it was done now, and each man had a job to do.
They managed to divert the water to cause the least amount of damage possible, and they were all soaked to the bone by the time they were done. Worn out, hungry, but feeling triumphant, the group dispersed, laughing and slapping Harold on the back as they left.
Peter was so tired, he almost couldn’t pull himself up to mount his horse. Bert chuckled. “I’d give you a boost, but I’d probably drop you,” he said. “I haven’t worked that hard in . . . well, a long time.”
“Let’s get back home, grab something to eat, and check on Marshall and Andrew,” Peter said, thoughts of warm bread and hot soup filling his mind. He’d be able to think a lot better on a full stomach. He’d also feel better after seeing Callie. There was something about her that always cheered him up and kept him motivated.
As they neared their cabins in White Fox, though, he noticed some commotion in town, and he spurred his horse to go faster. Bert did the same, and within minutes, they’d both slid off their horses in front of Andrew and Ida’s house, where Callie was waiting for them on the porch, waving to get their attention.
“Andrew’s been shot,” she said, her face pale.
“What?” Peter was sure he’d misunderstood her.
“The whole thing . . . it’s such a mess. I went to the store with Colleen this morning, and there were these strange men there, sort of scruffy-looking, and they were asking questions. Colleen told them that none of you were in town. I didn’t feel good about her saying that, but she’s so friendly and talkative, I’m sure she didn’t feel the need to hold anything back, but they were the train robbers, and then this . . .” She motioned over her shoulder. “I think he’ll be all right, but I’m scared for him, Peter.”
He gave her a quick kiss. “Let me check in and see what’s going on.” He turned and spoke over his shoulder. “Bert, will you take a shift at the station? Probably be getting some telegrams coming through, etc.”
“Of course.” Peter’s instructions had been a little garbled because he was rattled, but Bert knew the routine and understood what Peter was asking him to do.
Peter entered the cabin and found Andrew propped up in bed, Ida taking care of him. The man was pale, but he lifted a hand in greeting.
“I heard you’d been shot. You don’t look dead to me,” Peter said, trying to sound jovial. In truth, it shook him to see one of his men injured, a man he’d sent on that assignment.
“I decided it wasn’t a good day to die,” Andrew replied.
“It’s a flesh wound in his side,” Ida said softly. “Marshall took good care of him, I’ve helped a bit, and he’s just been awake for a couple of minutes.”
Peter grasped the footboard of the bed. So many thoughts and feelings were bubbling through him, he hardly knew where to start. “I’m sorry this happened,” he began. “I should have been there instead of staying behind at Harold’s.”
“No, sir,” Andrew said. “You’ve never made a wrong call since you took over command. This was meant to be.”
“I never consider one of my men getting hurt as being meant to be,” Peter replied.
“So, if you’d been shot instead, that would have sat a little better on your conscience?” Andrew chortled, but then held his side. “I don’t want to hear another word about it. You gave an order based on your knowledge at the time, I obeyed the order to the best of my ability, and neither one of us has anything to feel bad about. And Marshall’s going to hunt down those sons of guns and give them the what-for, so everything’s under control.”
Peter could tell from Andrew’s tone of voice that the blaming part of the conversation was over, so he went along with it. “Is Marshall taking anyone with him, or is he planning to make this a one-man operation?”
“He said something about deputizing Chip.”
The men laughed, and Peter felt some of the pressure lifting off his chest. At least Andrew didn’t blame him. That was something. What he needed to do, though, was figure out how to stop blaming himself.
Andrew blinked, his efforts to keep his eyes open obviously not working. “Sorry to sleep in your presence, sir, but I think I don’t have a choice.”
Peter nodded. “Go to sleep. Best thing for you.” He turned to Ida. “If you need anything, anything at all, you let me know.”
“Of course,” she replied with a smile. “And Callie’s already said she’s bringing over some dinner.”
“Excellent.” Peter opened his mouth again to say something else, but realized that he really had no idea what to say. It was hard to apologize to a woman for getting her husband shot.
He found Callie waiting for him on the porch, and they walked over to their cabin together, his arm around her shoulders. “Ida says you’re making them dinner. That’s kind of you.”
“It’s honestly the least I can do. Oh, I’m so glad it wasn’t you. Is that horrible and selfish of me?”
“No, of course not.” He paused and turned to face her. “I don’t think you have a selfish bone in you. I, on the other hand . . .”
Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean . . .” He shook his head. “I’m not sure I know what I mean. I had a choice between riding back to the train myself or staying to help Harold, and I sent Andrew and Marshall to check on the train. Was I being a coward?”
She grasped his sleeve. “Oh, Peter, no. You’re the least cowardly man I’ve ever met. How could you think that?”
“I just keep wondering if I let your dream influence me more than I should.”
“And I never should have told you about that dream.”
“You were terrified! You had to tell me or burst.” He took her into his arms, laughing ruefully. “Look at what a pair we are, both full of regrets and both trying unsuccessfully to comfort the other. Andrew doesn’t hold any ill will toward me, so I shouldn’t hold any toward myself. That’s the logical thing, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. And I should tell you about my dreams—we’re supposed to support each other in everything.”
“Exactly.” Peter kissed the top of her head and let her go as they resumed thei
r walk. “If we’re not careful, we’ll drive ourselves crazy wondering about all the what-ifs. We can’t do that. We can only do the best we can and see where that leads us.”
She gave his hand a squeeze, and her mood seemed much lighter the rest of the evening. He helped her carry a basket of food over to Andrew’s cabin around suppertime. Ida reported that he was sleeping, but seemed to be resting comfortably.
Peter couldn’t sleep that night. He lay in bed and listened to Callie’s tiny little snore—he’d never mentioned it to her, and he never would. He didn’t want her to be self-conscious about it. Finally, he got up and went into the other room to sit by the warmth of the banked fire. He had quite a lot of thinking to do.
All his training told him he’d done the right thing. He’d received some peace while talking it over with Callie, and it warmed his heart to know that Andrew was resting well. As he mulled it over, he realized there were a few logistical things to be wrapped up, and he’d take care of it the next day. Marshall was covering the night shift at the Mountie office that night, but Bert would be taking over for him, and that would give him a minute to tell Marshall what needed to happen next.
***
Peter was absolutely dumbfounded to discover that Colleen was an artist. She’d felt terrible about telling the train robbers that all the Mounties were out of town for the day, and she’d asked if descriptions were helpful. Then she’d drawn some of the most realistic portraits Peter had ever seen—she truly had a gift for art, and yet she didn’t seem to know how talented she really was. As far as he was concerned, she had nothing to feel terrible about . . . and then he laughed at himself. He could forgive her so much more easily than he could himself. That was something for him to work on, no doubt.
Andrew slept through most of that day’s visit as well, but as his color was good and he seemed peaceful, Peter continued to think it was the best thing for him. And then there was one other thing that would be for the best . . . he just needed to tell Marshall.
He caught up with the man outside Andrew’s cabin and offered him the lead on bringing the bank robbers in. He’d mulled it over for quite some time the night before and come to the conclusion that Marshall had earned that right. He’d been there, he’d shot at the robbers and wounded one, and he had the fire in his belly to make it happen. Not only that, but his service record was outstanding, and he deserved a chance to show more of what he was made of. Peter would have liked the recognition this kind of arrest would bring him, but he hadn’t earned it. Marshall had.
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