"I came to help."
"How long do you plan to stay this time?" Hen demanded, his bitterness undiminished. "Long enough for the hanging, or will you leave in the middle of the trial?"
"There won't be any hanging."
"And how do you plan to arrange that? George won't let me break out. He'd bring me back if I did."
"I'm a lawyer," Madison explained. "I intend to prove you didn't kill Troy Sproull."
"So the runaway comes back all dressed up as a fancy lawyer to help his poor, ignorant brothers," Hen sneered.
It took all of Madison's grit not to waver. Neither George nor Hen had forgiven him. Could he expect any better from his other brothers? If not, what was he doing here?
"And what makes you so sure I didn't kill Troy?" Hen demanded, obviously trying to goad Madison into losing his temper
"I don't believe the boy I knew could turn into a killer."
Their father may have lacerated their souls, turning them into savage, angry men, but Madison wouldn't believe any one of his brothers could commit murder. He had to keep that foremost in his mind. What his brothers felt about him, what he felt about himself, wasn't important now.
"How would you know? You weren't around to see me grow up, to see what I became."
Madison wondered how a voice speaking barely above a whisper could thunder in his ears with the force of a cannon. For once in his life, he wished Hen had remained tight-lipped and silent.
"Ask anybody who knows me, even George. I'm a killer. I would have killed Troy if he'd said another word about Pa."
"Don't be pigheaded, Hen," George said.
"Why did you bring him here?" Hen demanded of George. "I'd rather you shot him before he reached the edge of town."
"He means to help--"
"I don't want his help," Hen said, his eyes shining like cold, blue diamonds. "Get him out of here, or I may murder him."
Madison turned on his heel, a red haze of anger clouding his brain, a sick feeling in his gut causing his stomach to tie up in painful knots. He had expected Hen to be angry, but he hadn't been prepared for such fury.
No, hate. Hen hated him with the same intensity Madison had hated his father. He knew what that felt like, the depth and the intensity. Nothing would change that, not even proving Hen's innocence.
Madison paused outside the doorway of the jail. He looked about him at the rough, raw town. Streets ankle keep in dust, which would turn to mud at the first rain; the stench and noise of the stockyards, which had nearly overpowered him when he stepped off the train; false-fronted stores hiding mean, low buildings full of coarse, common goods; soft light spilling into the streets from a dozen saloons; the shrill cacophony of a piano combined with voices singing off key; the bark of drunken laughter; men living each day on the brink of eternity. He didn't begrudge them their moments of pleasure, but he couldn't understand them.
His brothers had become such men. He couldn't understand them either.
Yet he had to try, or he might as well go back to Boston and forget he had a family.
He noticed a young man swaggering toward him, and his anger and frustration focused itself on this unknown cowboy. With an unpleasant shock, he realized the "young man" was the young woman who had accosted him on the steps of the Drovers Cottage.
He felt his interest quicken, his attention narrow. He watched her approach, bemused by his response to a female who should have set his teeth on an edge instead of arousing wry amusement, great curiosity, and an odd feeling of affinity.
Her walk seemed to slow. She had recognized him. Now it quickened, and she exaggerated the swagger ever so slightly.
But even as he wondered what chain of events could have produced such remarkable results, he remembered Fern Sproull wanted Hen dead. It galled him that any person inhabiting this wilderness should attempt to harm one of his brothers.
He stepped forward into her path. It would be fun to watch her try to decide whether to walk past like she'd never seen him, acknowledge his presence and keep going, stop and talk, or cross the street to avoid him altogether. He liked to make his opponents uncomfortable. It threw them out of their game, made them make mistakes.
It gave him the advantage.
Chapter Three
"The men of this town are braver than I thought," Madison said when she drew near.
"What do you mean by that?" she demanded. She had started to walk by, but now she stopped and turned toward him.
Madison assumed a languid pose. "Most people don't feel comfortable when other people go around pretending to be something they aren't. It's the old wolf-in-sheep's-clothing dilemma. If I remember correctly, it bothered King David when he was still a shepherd boy."
His attack was clearly unexpected, but it didn't faze her.
"I'm surprised you've read the Bible," she shot back. "I didn't think your type espoused any credo beyond getting what you wanted."
Nice snappy recovery. She might have her understanding of what was expected of a woman all backwards, but her head wasn't filled with straw.
He took a minute to straighten his coat. He wanted to draw attention to the difference between his clothes and the local haberdashery
"We evil types have to read all the good books so we'll we know what you good types are up to."
"Well, you can read the Good Book all you want, but it's not going to save your brother."
Clearly Miss Sproull wasn't intimidated by his dress. He'd have to employ another tactic.
"Why doesn't your father buy you a dress? A nice calico can't cost half as much as those boots you're wearing. As for that gun, that ought to buy you a whole wardrobe full of frilly dresses."
"I wear exactly what I want," she snapped, obviously caught between a desire to leave him standing and an equally strong desire to give him a tongue lashing he'd long remember.
So this wasn't a case of a daughter being forced by circumstance to dress like a son, Madison thought to himself. She had chosen her wardrobe. Now why would a girl do that? In spite of himself, she intrigued him.
He looked at her more closely. He didn't think she was unattractive, but it was difficult to evaluate her appearance under the handicap of her clothing, worn and ill-fitting clothing at that. He guessed she'd fix up rather nicely, but it was clear she had a splendid figure. She might cover the swell of her breasts with a loose vest, but from her waist down, her body was as clearly outlined as a mountaintop at sunrise.
No woman he knew would parade around like that. His mother would have fainted at the thought.
But Madison didn't feel faint. In fact, he found his pulse quickening. He was accustomed to a coquettish smile or a fluttering eyelash, but he found the allure of trim hips and long, slim legs even more captivating. It must be pure animal lust. Nothing else could cause such a reaction. He certainly couldn't appreciate such a female with his mind.
Madison smiled. "It ought to pose something of a problem for you, being one thing but wanting to be taken for another."
"Not at all," Fern replied, her chin tilted at him in defiance. "It's been so long since I proved I can do anything a man can, nobody thinks about it anymore."
Madison decided there was a little too much challenge in her voice and stance. She was clearly proud of herself, but he had a vague suspicion she wasn't entirely pleased no one thought of her as a girl. Correction. Woman. He didn't know much about her yet, but one thing he did know. Fern Sproull had ceased to be a girl some time ago.
His smile broadened.
"Then along comes some dude, a city slicker, a tenderfoot, and you have to prove it all over again."
The tilt of her chin increased.
"What you think is of absolutely no consequence."
Madison chuckled inwardly. She didn't like him, not one single bit. But he liked needling her. He especially liked the way her eyes flashed.
Madison resumed his languid air. "I seem to remember you had a lot to say about my brother's innocence."
"He's
not innocent," Fern said, hopping on the word like she meant to exterminate it. "Dave Bunch saw him--"
Madison's entire demeanor changed. He came vibrantly alive, aggressive and combative. He practically charged her, stopping only to avoid knocking her down. Fern jumped back in surprise.
"Mr. Bunch is reputed to have said he recognized my brother's horse," Madison said, assuming his most intimidating manner. "Now unless you believe horses can pull triggers, and that my brother is responsible for the actions of his horse, you don't have much of a case."
She glared at him. She had very fine eyes. Hazel with a bluish-grey tint. He wished it were still daylight. He wanted to be more sure of the shade.
"You must think everybody in Kansas is an idiot," she shot back, "just waiting for some self-important know-it-all to come tell us what to do."
She was just spilling over with things to get off her chest. Not a bad chest at that. But he had to keep his mind off her body. He was here to help Hen. It was okay if he wiled away a few hours satisfying his curiosity about this quixotic creature, but the shape of her legs, the swell of her breast, and the color of her eyes had nothing to do with that.
Fern refused to let this Randolph intimidate her. She also refused to admit he was so handsome she had trouble remembering why he had come to Abilene. She kept telling herself she hated him, that she wanted to see him run out of town. But it would have been a lot easier if she could have closed her eyes.
"We know what to do with killers," she said. "We also know what to do with a stuffed gunny sack made up to look like a man."
"Are you going to trample me under your pretty little feet?" Madison asked. He moved closer and flashed an ingratiating smile.
"We're going to ride you out of town with a fire under your tail." She hoped she sounded fierce and confident. She felt completely unnerved.
Smiling even more broadly, Madison brought his face down until their noses practically touched.
"You know, if my sister had talked like that -- if I'd had a sister, that is, my family being only boys, which I assure you was a great hardship to my mother, the poor woman not really being up to handling a household of eight men, not that any female is up to handling that many men, or one man for that matter, females being delicate by nature and not given to being able to put up with the riot and rumpus of seven boys, not that we put up a lot of riot and rumpus, you understand, being raised to be nice southern boys as we were, but boys being boys we didn't always do what our mother wished, not that she wished to restrain us too much, being the kindest of souls--"
"Piss and vinegar!" Fern hissed. "Would you get to the point?" She gave in and backed away. "It wouldn't be surprised to learn you win your cases by driving your opponents insane." By smiling at them, causing them to lose every thought in their heads.
But no man had ever done that to her, and she didn't mean for Madison Randolph to be the first.
"As I was about to say," Madison said, sounding injured in spite of his smiling eyes, "if you'd talked that way in Virginia, you'd have had ladies fainting away by the parlor full. And that would make you very unpopular. It's very difficult for a woman to get in and out of her stays. And of course the first thing you do for a fainting female is to loosen her stays. But then you wouldn't know that, would you?"
"I imagine you know far more about feminine apparel than I do," Fern said, giving ground.
"From the looks of it, a sheep herder knows more than you."
Madison could tell she wasn't expecting that one. He could see the anger flame in her eyes. It made the blue disappear leaving nothing but grey, like ashed coal, a cool, dull surface but burning hot underneath.
"Is there some reason why you're blocking my path?" she asked. "I'm sure your forked tongue gets plenty of exercise in Boston. It's sure sharp enough."
Not bad. This woman would bear further study. Clearly there was more to her than a pair of dusty pants and a sheepskin vest. Besides, despite her clothes, she was more fun to look at than horses and cows. Maybe he'd tell her so, but only if he found just the right moment.
He smiled, genuinely this time, hoping to reduce the tension between them.
"Well, actually I was wondering if you could tell me how to find the scene of the crime."
"Why don't you ask your brother?"
"George is rather preoccupied at the moment." He knew she meant Hen. "His wife could present him with a baby any minute, and he is understandably loath to leave her side."
She looked at him as if to say I don't know what you're trying to do, but I don't trust you. Aloud she said, "The Connor place is a long way from here. The only way to get there is by horseback."
"So?"
"You'll have to ride."
"I didn't expect you would offer to carry me."
"On a horse."
"You mean I could ride a buffalo if I want? What fun you get up to in Kansas."
Fern couldn't decide whether he was being sarcastic or if this was his idea of fun. "Anybody in town can give you directions. Or take you out there if you like."
"I'd rather you take me."
"No."
"Why not?"
"I don't want to. Besides, why should I help you get your brother off?"
"You wouldn't, but it's been my experience that at least one significant detail gets overlooked. I assumed you'd want to be around in case I found anything."
Fern told herself she should have nothing to do with Madison Randolph, but she couldn't let him go to the Connor place alone. She didn't trust him. She respected the native shrewdness of Kansans, but she wasn't naive enough to think big city lawyers didn't know a few more tricks than Marshal Hickok. Whether she liked it or not, she had to keep an eye on him until after the trial.
"When do you want to go?"
"How about tomorrow morning?"
"You'll have to meet me at my father's farm."
"I'll be there at nine o'clock. I know a road is too much to hope for, but you do have a path leading there, don't you?"
"Follow the south road out of town," she said, glaring at him, "take the left fork about a mile after you pass the creek. We're another two miles farther on."
"I supposed it's too much to hope for a mailbox."
"Why should we have mailboxes?" She knew he was having fun with her now. "Surely you don't think we can read."
Fern started walking away from him, a decided swagger to her stride. "If you're not at the house by nine o'clock, I won't wait," she called back over her shoulder. "I can't spend all day playing nursemaid to a tenderfoot. I've got some bulls that need castrating." She stopped and turned back to face him, one hand on her hip, an unmistakable challenge in her eye. "That's one job I'm real good at."
"I guess I'd better wear a thick pair of chaps."
She wondered if he really knew what chaps were or if he'd read about them in some book.
"Until tomorrow." He waved.
She turned on her heel and walked off.
Madison stood watching her for a moment, then burst out laughing. He rather thought she got the best of the exchange with her remark about the bulls. He'd better stay on his toes. He couldn't let it be said he'd been bested by a woman from Kansas who didn't know enough to be sure of her own sex, even if he was quite positive about it. Wouldn't Freddy love that?
But Freddy and Boston seemed so far away now, almost as though the last eight years had been a dream and Texas the only reality.
Madison shook his head to dislodge that fearful thought. He didn't know whether it was Kansas, his brothers' cold reception, or this most unusual female, but nothing had gone as he had expected.
* * * * *
Fern paused, the coffee pot in one hand, her cup in the other. The sound of Madison's laughter still rang in her ears. It had rung there all night, keeping her awake, aggravating her, making her wonder why he had laughed at her, making her angry that he had, making her furious that she cared.
She poured her coffee and carried it over to a heavy eart
henware jar. As she stirred thick cream into the steaming black liquid, she berated herself for talking to him. She shouldn't even see him again.
But she was going to take him to the Connor place this morning.
She would have been lying to herself if she hadn't admitted she felt a kind of simmering excitement. She might hate the reasons that brought Mr. Randolph to Abilene, but it was impossible to hate Mr. Randolph.
"You're moving mighty slow this morning," her father said as he finished his breakfast. He drained his coffee cup and stood up. "You'd better hustle about, or you'll never get your work done."
"I'll get it done." She took a swallow of her coffee and decided it needed more cream.
Of course being from Boston he probably thought everyone in Kansas was hardly better than a savage, that all he had to do was show up and they would release Hen automatically.
That was one expectation he wouldn't see fulfilled. Boston might be important to Bostonians, but as far as the people of Kansas were concerned, it was just another town and its citizens no different from anybody else.
The door slamming behind her father brought Fern out of her trance. She walked over to the table and sat down. She wrapped her hands around her coffee cup and stared into space.
Of course all the men in Boston couldn't look like Madison Randolph. If so, every female in the country would move there.
Fern had long been aware the Randolphs were unusually good looking men. The ladies of Abilene had talked of little else after three blond, young, and single Randolphs rode in together one day four years ago. Fern wasn't too fond of blonds, but she did agree George Randolph, who came the next year, was the best looking man she had ever seen.
But that was before she saw Madison. When she looked into that ruggedly handsome face, it was hard for her to remember he was the villain and she was supposed to hate him. Even when he needled her.
The door opened and her father stuck his head inside. "You going to castrate those yearlings this morning?"
"No. I promised to take that Randolph fella out to the Connor place."
Maybe he was just laughing at her. It would be just like him. He had a real high opinion of himself. And it was more than carefully tailored clothes or the way he dressed. It was the way he walked, the way he looked about him as though he could barely tolerate being here.
Fern Page 3
